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Martyrdom of Huss. 

See page 268 



CONRAD 


A TALE OF WICLIF AND 
BOHEMIA. 


BY 

V 

EMMA. LESLIE. 

ii 

Author of ‘‘Fla via,” “Elfreda,” etc. 


r — : 

FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS, 


Or 





NEW YORK : 
PHILLIPS & HUNT. 


tt JVo. ..£$£. 

' ' Or \ams.A *-A 


. CINCINNATI: 
HITCHCOCK & WALDEN. 

1879. 




Copyright 1879, by 


db 


HUNT, 


New York. 


PREFACE. 


J N sending forth this first volume of the 
second series of Church History Stories 
I have to thank my readers for their 
very favorable reception of the first series. 
To the writer each age attempted to be 
portrayed has such peculiar difficulties 
in the way of giving a fair picture of it 
as a whole, especially within the limits of 
a short story, that it seems failure rather 
than success must follow upon every effort 
in the handling of such multiform and 
cumbrous materials as history presents. 

This is especially the case in the period 
now taken up and presented to the reader 
in “ Conrad.” The mixture of political 
and religious feeling that characterized 
the struggles for freedom in this dawning 


6 


PREFACE. 


age of the world’s history — the efforts of 
the Church to purify herself of the cor- 
ruptions that were a scandal and reproach, 
and yet to crush out the dangerous heret- 
ical tendencies that were every-where 
cropping up — the struggles of Church 
and State to maintain their hold upon the 
peoples of Europe, and keep them still 
in the blindness of ignorance, in which 
they had been content to sleep for ages 
— all these varied motives and agencies 
were at work at one and the same time. 

The sleeping giant, “ Society,” was rous- 
ing at last, and its despotic keepers were 
in alarm for their own power lest, waking, 
it should burst their bonds and fetters 
and turn and rend them. For ages, too, 
the Church had been asleep — sinking 
deeper and deeper into lethargy concern- 
ing her work in the world, and into the 
quicksands of luxury and vice. Once she 
had been the helper of the helpless, the 


PREFACE. 


7 


protector of the poor against their op- 
pressors ; but now she had forgotten her 
high mission, and joined hands with the 
oppressor. Kings and emperors did the 
bidding of the Church, that the Church 
might help them to crush the struggles of 
the people for liberty ; while to strengthen 
herself the Church was glad to make any 
alliance, be it ever so despicable, or to pro- 
mote wars and tumults, that the thoughts 
of men might be turned away from that 
which intimately concerned each one of 
them — how they should come to the 
knowledge of God and the salvation he 
has provided in Jesus Christ for^all men. 

In preparing this volume I am very 
deeply indebted to Mosheim’s “ History 
of Christianity;” Milman’s “Latin Chris- 
tianity;” Vaughan’s and other “ Lives ** 
of Wiclif; Anderson’s “Ladies of the 
Reformation ; ” Chaucer’s “ Canterbury 
Tales,” and a “ Life of Chaucer;’’ Mass- 


8 


PREFACE. 


ingberd, Hallam, and Mackintosh’s “His- 
tory of England Foxe’s “ Book of Mar- 
tyrs,” and several other works. 

If from these dry bones of history I 
have been able to present to my readers 
any living picture from which lessons of 
courage and faith and hope and love 
may be drawn, and by the help of God’s 
Holy Spirit blossom again in their lives, 
then the prayers and hopes of the author 
will be fulfilled, and reader and author 
may rejoice together in thanksgiving to 
God for his most precious gifts. 


CONTENTS 


Chapter Page 

I. A Royal Wedding n 

II. The Strangers 22 

III. A Night Encounter 35 

IV. Geoffrey Chaucer 48 

V. Dame Ursula 60 

VI. Going on Pilgrimage 75 

VII. Was She a Lollard? 87 

VIII. The Earthquake Council 100 

IX. The Disabled Traveler 113 

X. New Friends . .. 126 

XI. Jerome of Prague 138 

XII. Death of Wiclif 151 

XIII. Will the Truth Die ? 166 

XIV. In London 176 

XV. A Confession 189 

XVI. In Prague 201 

XVII. John Huss 213 

XVIII. The Monastery of the Black Friars 225 

XIX. The Last First 238 

XX. At Constance 251 

XXI. Condemnation of Huss 264 

XXII. Conclusion 277 


Jfllttstrstiions. 

Page 

Martyrdom of Huss 2 

Dame Ursula Going a Pilgrimage to Canter- 
bury 74 

Death of Wiclif 164 

The First Bible 285 


CONRAD. 


CHAPTER I. 

A ROYAL WEDDING. 

I T was a gay and animated scene upon which 
the sun looked down one bright cold day in 
January, 1382 ; and the little village of Charing, 
not far from the royal palace of Westminster, 
was crowded with a merry throng who came 
wending their way through the fields of Hol- 
born, or along the road by the river bank, but 
all bent on the same errand — to see the won- 
drous plays and magnificent pageants, and join 
in the festivities that every one was welcome 
to partake of on this, the wedding-day of their 
sovereign, King Richard II. 

Of course, the main topic of conversation was 
the bride — her beauty, accomplishments, and 
piety ; and, foreigner though she was, and deeply 
as all foreigners were hated by the English as 
a nation, it seemed that she had already won for 
herself a place in the hearts of her people. 

“ Ah, this is a bright day for England, neigh- 


12 


Conrad. 


bor ! ” exclaimed an old man in a leather jerkin, 
whose brown horny hands proclaimed his work 
in the smithy. 

His companion grunted, “ It might have been 
if brave Wat Tyler had gained for us all he 
asked ; but look ye, it is not for naught the 
conduits and fountains have been filled with 
wine and ale again and again by King Richard. 
But Englishmen will not always submit to be 
amused like children and slaves, as they are ; 
they are beginning to think for themselves, and 
to feel that the chains gall, and — ” 

" Faith now, neighbor, cease thy grumbling, 
for this day at least, when our good lord the 
king would have all men merry as himself,” 
interrupted his friend. 

“ Ha, merry, forsooth ! He would have us drink 
of his wine because he knoweth that when the 
wine is in the wit leaketh out, and he would fain 
keep us a nation of witless villains,* who dare 
not ask wherefore new taxes are imposed, or 
why the king should fix every man’s wage.” 

“Nay, but thou hast no cause to grumble at 
thy wages ; thou hast thy full fourpence a day, 
like any master mason or carpenter ; wherefore, 
then, dost thou complain ?” 

“ Because I would fain buy or rent a small 

* A feudal tenant of the lowest class. 


13 


A Royal Wedding. 

plat of land, even as I would have been a yeo- 
man could I have tilled the soil and tended 
mine oxen without doing body service for it to 
the lord of the land.” 

“ Then ’tis the body service and not the wages 
thou art complaining of, and I am somewhat of 
thy opinion in that matter.” 

“ If thou art any better than the hammer 
that thou wieldest thou must be of the same 
opinion, for are we not all of us in slavery ? The 
men of the towns doubtless have more privileges 
than the villains ; but they cannot buy or sell at 
any fair or mart they please, and our wives may 
not wear an inch of Flemish broadcloth, and — ” 

“ Nay, if thou art going to bring women and 
their whimsies about cloth into thy quarrel 
with the king thou wilt never come to an end 
of thy complainings. We must be patient, 
neighbor ; our fathers were content with things 
as we find them, and I say again, this is a bright 
day for England.” 

“ When she is still a nation of slaves, and 
brave Wat Tyler lies in a dishonored grave ? ” 

“ I was not speaking of the sorry insurrection 
of last year, or even of the king, but of our 
good Queen Anne. Tis of her all men are 
talking, and many have cause to talk, too ; for 
'tis to her that many owe their lives, and that 


14 


Conrad. 


they are abroad this day instead of pining with- 
in prison walls. Didjt thou not hear the story 
of how she went down on her knees before 
the king to beg for the general pardon of all 
rebels, and the king in his great love could in 
nowise refuse her request ? ” 

“ Ah, but, ’tis said, too, she is no friend to 
Holy Church, but favoreth these Lollards, like 
the queen mother and the Duke of Lancaster,” 
rejoined the mason. 

“ Well, I have naught to say against the Lol- 
lards ; they are a peaceable people, honest and — ” 
“ Peaceable,” exclaimed the other, “ when 
they rail against Holy Church, and say that 
men should read the Scriptures for themselves, 
and judge what is done by the Church ! ” 

“And wherefore should we not judge for 
ourselves in the matter of religion as in other 
things ? ” asked a man in a bright pink tabard 
and a broad white collar. 

The mason stared, wondering whether he was 
the herald or pursuivant of some great lord, 
who would report all he had heard to his mas- 
ter ; but he soon saw that the man wore no 
armor beneath the short gay tunic, neither 
was it embroidered with coat of arms or ensign 
of any sort, and so gossips breathed more 
freely. 


A Royal Wedding. 15 

After a few minutes’ silence the man re- 
peated his question, and this time in a louder 
tone, as though he wished all the crowd to hear 
it : “Wherefore, I say, should not a man judge 
for himself in matters of religion ? Are we not 
as able to do this as an idle, ignorant priest, or 
a lazy, begging friar ? We would not heed them 
in matters of business or daily work, and what 
know they more than we — at least, more than 
we can learn if we will ? ” 

Many in the crowd looked shocked, while not 
a few applauded the bold speech ; but a nun 
who stood near, eager as any to see the fun, and 
displaying a bright ribbon of gold tissue over 
her black serge dress, turned her angry face 
toward the man and said, “ Thou art overbold 
to teach thy Lollardism to this crowd ; but the 
Church will crush the evil heresy even yet.” 
And then she moved away from his contaminat- 
ing presence, while a general move in the crowd 
and a loud shout from those in front turned 
every body’s attention toward what was going 
forward. 

“ The fountains are pouring forth right goodly 
drinks ! ” exclaimed one. 

“ Ha, ha ! here is wine and ale for all comers ; 
every man can be his own drawer, and none say 
him nay,” shouted another voice in the crowd. 


1 6 


Conrad. 


Of course, every one was eager to press for- 
ward to the fountains just set flowing with 
strong ale and wine, and there was a good deal 
of pushing and screaming ; but on the whole 
the crowd was very good tempered, and as they 
drew nearer the palace gates there were other 
attractions provided besides the wine and ale 
fountains. There were minstrels and mummeries 
and mountebanks, besides a grand tournament, 
and in the fields of the nunnery close by there 
were mystery plays, and games of various kinds 
going on in which all were welcome to join. 

It was a merry, motley throng that was gath- 
ered round the scattered buildings of the con- 
vent and the church close by, where a “ glutton 
mass ” had been provided for the refection of 
the hungry, while from the branches of the bare, 
leafless trees that inclosed this rich domain of 
the Church floated pennons and banners of 
every color and device. 

Beneath the trees walked parties of nuns 
chatting gayly to some young knight or noble 
lord, for as yet the rule was not imperative 
upon nuns to keep within the walls of the con- 
vent ; and, although this was their home — or, 
rather, abiding place, for the sweet, sacred name 
of “ home ” is almost desecrated by being applied 
to such institutions — they still mingled rather 


1 7 


A Royal Wedding . 

freely with the world. Monks and noble ladies, 
in their new-fashioned high-peaked head-dress- 
es, and courtiers in parti-colored dresses and 
shoes a yard long, all mingled with the crowd, 
while the gay and glittering trappings of the 
horses lent an additional splendor to the moving 
panorama. 

Our two old friends, the blacksmith and 
mason, had been separated for a time, and when 
they met again the first had taken an old lady 
under his protection. By her dress it was easy 
to see that she was a foreigner, and the rough 
boys and ’prentice lads, bent upon extracting 
fun from every thing that came in their way, had 
teased the old lady sadly until the blacksmith 
had interfered on her behalf. 

She thanked him in broken English, and said 
she would go home again, but that her little 
grandson would be disappointed if she failed to 
tell him all about the shows and pageants when 
she went back. 

“ Then thou shalt see them all, good dame, if a 
stout arm can aid thee,” said the blacksmith. 

“ And our little Conrad shall himself thank 
thee for thy kindness to an old woman,” she 
replied, as she accepted his proffered help to 
reach a good position for seeing all that was 
going on. 


i8 


Conrad. 


“ Tut, tut ; but wherefore did not thy Conrad 
come to take care of thee himself?” asked the 
blacksmith. 

The old woman smiled for a moment, but it 
was quickly followed by a sigh as she said : 
“ Our Conrad is a child, but if he were not he 
would not be able to come here like other boys, 
for he is sorely crippled, and cannot even stand 
upright. He will never learn the use of his 
feet, I fear ! ” she added. 

“ Poor little lad ! ’twere well if his journey of 
life were a short one an it be with so much 
suffering. I will come and see him to help thy 
memory about this day’s gay doings if it will 
please the child.” 

“ He will be right pleased to talk to thee. 
We lodge in the house of one Hugh Ryland, 
in the lane that goeth toward Holborn fields, 
.hard by the Temple-house.” 

“ What, the cottage that stands near the gate 
of my Lord Bishop of Lincoln’s Inn ?” 

“ Yes, that is Hugh Ryland’s cottage ; and our 
Conrad will be right glad to see thee, for thou 
wilt be able to tell him more than I can of the 
shows and mummeries.” 

“ I know the spot, and will come erelong, 
and — ” but his speech, was here interrupted by 
his former companion, the mason, being pushed 


9 


A Royal Wedding . 

against bis elbow, and the next minute another 
small party of friends had edged their way to 
his side. 

“ Lollards ! ” whispered the mason, looking 
keenly at the new comers. 

But the blacksmith did not heed the whisper. 
“ ’Tis pleasant to see the face of a friend in a 
crowd like this,” he said, as he welcomed them 
to the little sheltered nook he had discovered. 

“ ’Tis a brave sight,” said one, looking round. 

“ Ha, and ’tis a brave day for England,” said 
the blacksmith, heartily. 

“ ’Tis true, then, that the new queen will show 
favor to our reformer, Master John of Wiclif,” 
said one in a lower tone. 

“All men think so, for ’tis well known that 
she is a diligent reader of the holy Scriptures, 
and favored some in Bohemia who hold views 
like Master Wiclif’s.” 

But, cautiously as the blacksmith had spoken, 
his new acquaintance had heard his words, and 
she drew away from him as far as possible, 
while a look of hatred and disgust was darted 
toward the small party of friends who had been 
called Lollards. She had only just learned the 
meaning of that word ; but to learn it was to 
hate it with a more rancorous hatred than even 
the bishops and clergy felt against Wiclif himself. 


20 


Conrad. 


“ I thought we had left the evil thing behind 
us — that it was far, far away from this England, 
and that, coming here, I might save the child 
from the pestilent heresy of his — ” and there 
the old woman stopped, and, forgetting where 
she was, she covered her face with her hands, 
and groaned as if in bodily pain. 

“ Faith, and art thou ill, good dame ? ” asked 
the blacksmith, who had heard the woman moan. 

“ Nay, nay, ’tis naught ; attend to thy friends 
and heed not me,” said the old woman, half 
angrily, and trying to push her way through the 
crowd to get away from such objectionable 
company. 

“ The crowd is too much for thee, I trow, 
good dame,” said one of the men ; “ I fear thou 
wilt not be able to reach home just yet.” 

“ I will e’en try,” said the woman shortly, for 
she was determined to get rid of her present 
company, though she fell a victim to the ’pren- 
tices’ persecution in consequence. 

But the crowd was too great, and too eager 
to maintain its present position, to allow her 
to push her way through, so she was reluct- 
antly compelled to accept the help of the black- 
smith’s stalwart arm again, and, even with him 
to champion her, it was some time before she 
could reach a spot where she could, without 


21 


A Royal Wedding. 

rudeness, tell him that she no longer needed his 
help. By that time his kindness had so far 
won upon her that, in spite of the strong sus- 
picion she still entertained of his leaning toward 
Lollardism, she could not but thank him, and 
say Conrad would be glad to see him, although 
she hoped that he would forget her, and all she 
had told him about her grandson, before the 
next day. 

It was useless for her to think of getting 
more than a passing glimpse at the shows now 
that she was left alone ; and, wearied with the 
pushing, squeezing, and all the din of music, 
shouting, and laughter, she was glad to turn her 
steps toward the quiet lane where she lived. 


22 


Conrad. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE STRANGERS. 

I N a small wooden tenement whose over- 
hanging stories threatened to fall upon the 
heads of every passenger the blacksmith car- 
ried on his trade of an armorer, while in an 
adjoining shed the more humble work of a 
blacksmith was carried on. 

Master Filpot was reckoned to be a well-to-do 
citizen, shrewd and prudent, though rather ec- 
centric ; but his friend and gossip, Master True- 
man, the mason, was ready to doubt every thing 
but the eccentricity this evening; for he had 
called in to drink a horn of ale and discuss the 
last item of news about the lord mayor and the 
improvements he was introducing in the city 
government, when, to his astonishment, he found 
him preparing to go out. 

“ Faith, but thou must be tired of thy life to 
venture forth at this hour. Why, ’tis near five 
of the clock, and almost dark. Where art thou 
going ? ” 

“ Not far ; but I want to see the little knave 
whose grandame was with us yesterday,” said 
the blacksmith. 


23 


The Strangers. 

“ Nay, but, if I mistake not, the dame wants 
none of thee, for I saw she fooked with little 
favor on thy friends, the Lollards.” 

“Who told thee they were Lollards, Ned 
Trueman?” asked the blacksmith, a little con- 
fused. 

“ Nay, who but Lollards would speak of the 
heretic Wiclif as a ‘ reformer ? ’ We know 
that he hath called the holy father ‘ Antichrist/ 
and * the most worldly priest of Rome,’ and 
yet—” 

“ Nay, but what hath all that to do with the 
little knave who wants to hear about the brave 
doings of yesterday ? ” interrupted the black- 
smith. 

“ Naught but this, that thou wilt be befooled 
for thy pains at going, for the dame hateth all 
Lollard ways, I trow.” 

But the blacksmith still went on with his 
preparations for going out, and when he was 
ready and had lighted his lantern, asked his old 
friend to go with him. 

The mason shrugged his shoulders, grunted 
and grumbled, but finally set out toward the 
Bishop of Lincoln’s palace. 

They had to pick their way very carefully, for 
it was almost dark, and the ill-kept roads were 
full of ruts and holes, while at every dark corner 


24 


Conrad. 


they peered cautiously round for fear of thieves 
springing out upon them. 

They reached their destination at last, how- 
ever, with no worse accident than two or three 
slight falls ; but when the cottage door was 
opened Master Trueman found himself in the 
company of the same little party of friends 
whom he had stigmatized as “ Lollards ” a short 
time before. 

The blacksmith laughed at his evident con- 
fusion. “ Nay, nay, be not afraid, Master True- 
man,” he said ; “ these friends have but met to 
talk how they might help our worshipful lord 
mayor in his efforts to rule righteously this city, 
and gain for all men more true liberty.” 

At the word “ liberty ” the cloud that had 
suddenly come over the mason’s face as sudden- 
ly vanished, and he readily accepted the seat 
that was offered him ; though how men could 
talk about liberty or any thing else without 
a horn of strong ale at their elbows he was 
at a loss to know, for as he glanced round the 
room he saw at once that these men were not 
drinking. 

As soon as his friend was seated the black- 
smith turned toward the host. “What of thy 
lodgers, Hugh Ryland ; who are they ? ” he asked. 

“ I know little about them, but that they came 


25 


The Strangers. 

from Bohemia in the train of the queen. One 
of the great duke’s henchmen brought them 
hither, for the little knave, Conrad, is weakly, and 
’twas thought the fresh air from Holborn fields 
would be of more service to him than all the 
balsams of the leech.” 

“ And his grandame, what of her ? ” 

Before answering Hugh Ryland shrugged his 
shoulders, and then whispered something in his 
friend’s ear. 

The blacksmith looked concerned, and glanced 
toward Trueman as he said, “Thou must be 
cautious, Hugh, until we know how things may 
be.” 

“ The lord mayor will protect us,” said Hugh ; 
“ he is himself — ” 

But the blacksmith held up his finger warn- 
ingly. “ I will see this little knave now if thou 
wilt show me the way,” he said, and he groped 
his way up the narrow winding stairs after 
Hugh Ryland. 

The best rooms in the house had been taken 
for the old lady and her little charge, and various 
comforts had been sent since from the palace ; 
but to our nineteenth century notions of com- 
fort the place would still seem bare, dirty, and 
miserable. 

The walls were hung with faded tapestry, and 


2 6 


Conrad. 


the floor was strewn with rushes ; but in the 
place of sweet herbs being sprinkled with them, 
fish bones and remnants of meat and pastry 
were freely distributed among them, and, the 
last layer having been scattered over many 
previous ones, the air of the room was close and 
offensive. There was no fire, and as it was 
bitterly cold, and the little pale face, lying on 
the wooden bolster of the couch, looked pinched 
and blue, while the large wistful-looking eyes 
seemed preternaturally bright and eager as 
they turned toward the door as it opened. 

The next minute, however, a look of disap- 
pointment came over the sweet, pale face, and 
tears dimmed the blue eyes. “ I thought it was 
my mother,” he murmured as the blacksmith 
came forward. 

The old lady, who was sitting near the boy’s 
couch, rose in stately fashion, but there was 
no warmth of welcome in her greeting. 

“ Conrad, this is thy visitor,” she said, turning 
toward the boy, and setting the dim oil lamp on 
an oak chest near the couch, and then, placing a 
stool for their visitor, she retired into the shadow 
at the farther end of the room. The child tried 
to raise himself on his elbow as he thanked the 
blacksmith for coming to see them, and Filpot 
then had time to look at the delicate features. 


The Strangers. 


27 


and he wondered more than ever who this 
child could be. He spoke English very fairly, 
and told him that he was anxious his grand- 
mother should go and see the games, because 
she had not been out since their arrival at the 
cottage, and his mother was afraid she would 
be ill if she did not go out more. 

“ Who is your mother ? ” asked the black- 
smith. 

The child looked surprised at the question. 
“ Do you not know that we are Bohemians, and 
that my mother has been in the service of the 
Princess Anne ? — no, she is the queen now, my 
grandame says,” corrected the boy. 

“ Yes, she is the queen of England now, my 
little knave,” said the blacksmith. 

“ Yes, but we knew her as the Princess Anne, 
sister of King Wenceslaus, and my mother has 
served her ever since she was a little girl. She 
is not a great lady, like some of the court ladies, 
or else she would not love a poor little thing 
like me ; but being just a poor — ” 

“ Hush, Conrad,” said a commanding voice 
out of the dusky shadow. 

“ But mother says we are poor, although she 
is an attendant of the queen,” persisted Conrad. 

The blacksmith, to turn the conversation, 
asked the boy how long he had been lame. 


28 


Conrad. 


“ I have never been able to walk yet, but I 
shall now very soon, my grandame saith ; for we 
have heard to-day of two ways of being cured, 
and one is sure to make me well.” 

“What are they?” asked the blacksmith. 

“Why, there is the wonderful spring of Holy- 
well. Many miracles of healing have been per- 
formed there for those who are true and devout 
followers of holy Church, my grandame hath 
heard ; and then in this city of London, the 
prior of the Monastery of Holy Trinity hath given 
certain cottages hard by Houndsditch for poor 
bed-ridden folks, who can do naught but pray ; 
and any going to see them on a Friday, and 
relieving their necessities, will surely be cured 
by their prayers.” 

“ And thou art anxious to go to Holywell and 
Houndsditch, I trow,” said the blacksmith. 

“ Thou, too, dost think I shall be cured ! ” 
said the boy, eagerly. 

“ Nay, I cannot tell. This water hath, of a 
certain, some medicament in it, for I have 
heard of folks being cured by it ; but of the 
other — ” 

“ Then holy Church hath blessed this spring, 
and made it a well of healing to her faithful 
children,” said the old woman eagerly. 

The blacksmith turned toward the shadowy 


The Strangers. 29 

part of the room where Conrad’s grandmother 
still sat. 

“Nay, good dame ; I said not that the Church 
had aught to do with it, except in the way of 
taking toll and tithe of those who drink the 
water. God himself hath given it certain healing 
powers, I doubt not ; but whether it can cure 
lameness, I know not.” 

“ Thou hast never heard of such being cured 
by it ? ” asked the boy a little anxiously. 

“ Nay, ’tis of sickness and rheums I have 
heard people have been cured, but still I say 
not that it cannot cure thee if thou couldst go 
thither.” 

“ O, I will, I must go,” said the boy, and he 
turned restlessly on his straw-stuffed couch, as 
if anxious to set off at once. After a few min- 
utes’ pause, he said, 

" My grandame could go and ask all these 
folk at Houndsditch to pray for me ; my mother 
would give her silver pennies for each of them. 
Think you not that their prayers and the holy 
water together would make me strong like other 
boys ? ” 

The blacksmith wished he could give the lit- 
tle lad some hope, but he had no faith in the 
miracles that were falsely said to be wrought by 
this water ; and as to the prayers of the feeble 


30 


Conrad. 


folk of the priory, though he would by no means 
dissuade any from a charitable work, still he 
doubted not that this was used by the priests 
to lead men to trust in the prayers of others 
instead of going themselves to God for what 
they needed. 

He said something of this to little Conrad, 
but the boy quickly interrupted him. “ Thou 
dost think that because we came from Bohemia 
we are not faithful children of holy Church, 
and therefore God will not help us,” he said. 

“ Nay, nay, my little lad ; many of God’s faith- 
ful servants are in Bohemia, I trow.” 

“We are true to holy Church,” said the old 
lady in a stately tone. “ We consort not with 
those who despise her and speak evil of the 
pope.” 

“ Well, well, good dame, I have naught to 
accuse thee of in this matter ; if thou dost read 
the Scriptures thou dost know — ” 

“ The Scriptures,” interrupted the boy ; “ dost 
thou mean the Bible ? ” 

“Yes, ’tis God’s word, as doubtless thou 
knowest.” 

“Nay, my mother did but mention it once — 
that the Princess Anne spent some hours each 
day in the study of this book, and she would 
fain have me learn to read it, too,” 


3i 


The Strangers . 

“When did she say this?” burst forth the 
old woman, starting from her seat and speaking 
in an angry tone. 

“Nay, grandame, why shouldst thou be angry ? 
If this book be good for the Princess Anne it 
were surely good for me.” 

“ Good for thee ! ” almost shrieked the old 
lady ; “ it hath cursed thee and thy father and 
mother too. The reading of this book which the 
Church hath forbidden will work sore woe to 
Bohemia and England, too, if it be not stopped.” 

“ Nay, nay, good dame, speak not so. Hast 
thou seen the book for thyself ? ” 

“ Ah ! many times have I seen it in a hand 
that is well-nigh wasted away by this time, I 
trow.” 

“ But hast thou read it for thyself? ” asked 
the blacksmith quickly. 

“ Nay, praise the saints and holy Virgin ! I 
cannot read — have had naught to do with this 
evil device of Satan.” 

“ Nay, grandame, call it not an evil device, for 
thou knowest that my mother doth greatly desire 
that I shall learn this clerkly art.” 

The old lady groaned. “ Thy mother will 
curse thee wholly, in spite of all I may do to 
save thee. Clerkly art dost thou call this read- 
ing? Nay, our priests and friars are fain to 


32 


Conrad. 


leave the evil thing alone, for few of them can 
read.” 

“ Ah ! to their shame, and not to their praise, 
be it said that they are both ignorant and idle,” 
said the blacksmith warmly. 

“ Nay, nay, speak not evil of the holy friars 
to anger my grandame,” said little Conrad ; “ but 
tell me all thou dost know of this Bible. My 
mother saith it is a wonderful book, and the 
queen, her mistress, loveth it right well, as doth 
also the kings mother and the Duke of Lancas- 
ter. Grandame, thou dost not think that the 
Princess Anne would meddle with aught that is 
evil ? ” he added. 

“ Nay ; but what may be good for queens and 
dukes may be evil for poor folk like us. The 
Church, in her wisdom, hath said that the igno- 
rant and unlearned may not read the Bible, and 
as a faithful servant of the Church I must obey, 
and so must thou, Conrad.” 

The boy looked puzzled, but not convinced, by 
what his grandame said. “ I should like to see 
this book for myself,” he said. “ Canst thou 
read ? ” he suddenly asked the blacksmith. 

Master Filpot shook his head rather sadly. 
“ I would to God that I could,” he said earnestly. 

“ Dost thou know any who can ? ” asked 
Conrad. 


33 


The Strangers. 

M Yes, there are one or two good citizens here 
in London whom I have heard could read,” said 
Filpot cautiously. 

“ Then wherefore dost thou not learn of 
them ? ” asked Conrad. “ I would that I knew 
one who could teach me,” he added with a sigh. 

The blacksmith sat and mused in silence for 
a few minutes, and then he whispered, “ Wilt 
thou persuade thy grandame to let thee learn ? ” 

“ O, never fear but my grandame will be will- 
ing when she seeth I cannot be content with 
aught but this. She loveth me right well, good 
sir, and will not say me nay when she seeth my 
heart is set upon it.” 

“ Then I will try and learn of those who can 
teach, and then thou shalt learn of me if thou 
canst. It will pass away many a weary hour 
when thou art lying here on thy couch, and — ” 

“ Nay, nay ; but I am not going to lie here 
much longer. Hast thou forgotten the won- 
drous Holywell we were talking of, and the 
feeble folk by Houndsditch, whose prayers my 
grandame will buy for me ? ” 

“And wherefore shouldst thou not pray for 
thyself ? ” asked the blacksmith. 

Conrad looked astonished, and something 
like a shudder seemed to shake his slight frame. 
“Pray for myself?” he repeated ; “ would you 


34 


Conrad. 


have me pray to God ? Nay, nay ! it would — 
it would be awful!” and the boy covered his 
face with his hands and shivered with terror. 
“ Don’t, don’t talk about praying to God again,” 
lie said. “ I can pray to the saints, and to the 
sweet mother of mercy, the holy Virgin ; but 

0 not to God ! not to God ! ” 

“ But God is — ” 

“ Nay, sir, dost thou not see that thou art 
frightening the child ? Thou must perceive, too, 
that it is useless to try and teach him thy her- 
esy, this Lollardism, for he hateth it as sorely as 

1 do,” and the old lady came forward majestic- 
ally, and took a seat near the couch. 

The blacksmith rose to leave at once, for he 
feared that he had already said too much ; but 
in a moment the boy was trying to raise him- 
self again. 

“ Thou wilt come to see me very soon, to 
teach me this reading ? ” he said eagerly. 

“Yes, I will come,” said the blacksmith, in 
spite of the old lady’s sour looks. 


A Night Encounter. 


35 


CHAPTER III. 

A NIGHT ENCOUNTER. 

“ '1 "'HAT man is a Lollard ! ” This was Dame 
J- Ursula’s exclamation as the blacksmith 
went down stairs. 

Conrad looked at his grandmother, and then 
at the door by which his visitor had left. He 
had been taught to hate the name of “ heretic ” 
before he left Bohemia, and he knew that “ Lol- 
lard ” was a term of reproach quite as bitter in 
its meaning, and that Wiclif, the leader of such, 
was hated by the pope and clergy, and had been 
summoned to appear before the bishops here in 
London, and would have been condemned but 
for the interference of the king’s mother and 
the powerful Duke of Lancaster, who was some- 
times called the Father of the Lollards. 

All this had been told him by his grand- 
mother, as well as many false stories concern- 
ing the evil wrought by these people, so that at 
the bare mention of the blacksmith being a 
Lollard he shuddered again with disgust and 
fear. 

3 


36 


Conrad. 


“ Why dost thou think the man is a Lollard, 
grandame ? ” he asked. 

“ Because of the way in which he spoke of 
the Bible. This Wiclif hath translated it into 
the English tongue, so that unlearned men may 
break the laws of holy Church, and read this 
book to the destruction of their souls.” 

“ But, grandame, if the book be bad, as thou 
sayest, why doth the Princess Anne read it ? ” 

“ By my faith, Conrad, thou wilt anger me if 
thou sayest aught about the book or the Prin- 
cess Anne again. I tell thee it is forbidden by 
the Church, and that is enough to make me 
hate it, and should be enough for thee, if thou 
wert not tainted with this hateful heresy ! ” 

Poor Conrad burst into tears at his grand- 
mother’s angry words. The idea of being 
“tainted with this hateful heresy” was worse 
than all, and he sobbed so violently that it was 
some time before his grandmother could pacify 
him. 

“ Thou wilt not think I am * tainted with 
heresy’ because I want to learn to read?” he 
said, when the sobbing had somewhat sub- 
sided. 

“ There, hush, Conrad; thou knowest I can 
refuse thee nothing ; thou shalt learn to read, 
and this blacksmith shall teach thee ; but thou 


A Night Encounter. 37 

must surely beware of the man, for I do greatly 
fear he is a Lollard.” 

If Dame Ursula had gone down stairs just 
then her suspicions about this would have been 
confirmed, and she would have known, too, that 
her landlord, Hugh Ryland, and many of his 
friends, were “tainted with this heresy.” On 
the appearance of the blacksmith among them 
once more the party down stairs ceased their 
discussion about “liberty” and “taxes,” and 
“ land tenure by the payment of money instead 
of body service,” which had so greatly inter- 
ested Master Trueman ; for his friend, taking 
a rather curious-looking key from under his 
leather jerkin, where it had been concealed, went 
into an opposite recess, and after a few moments 
returned with a clumsy-looking volume, which 
he handed to one of the company, and then 
seated himself near his old friend. 

Trueman looked from one to the other, 
greatly puzzled to understand what this might 
mean, for all the party had settled themselves 
to listen attentively while the reader carefully 
and reverently turned over the coarse leaves of 
the clumsy book. It was not illuminated with 
pictures on the margin, like most books writ- 
ten by the monks, who were the only writers 
of those days ; and, seeing this, Trueman began 


38 


Conrad. 


to get fidgety. But at this moment the black- 
smith whispered, “’Tis of liberty the book 
tells, and it was penned by a godly priest of 
Cornwall, one John Trevisa.” 

“’Tis not Wiclif’s?” asked Trueman sus- 
piciously. 

“ Nay, ’tis written by the priest of Cornwall, 
and was first done for my lord Berkeley, who 
hath a great regard for this book.” 

The reader had found the place, and now, in 
a clear, reverent voice, he slowly read the story 
of the prodigal son, every one listening with 
earnest attention, and none more impressed than 
Trueman. When the reading was over prayer 
was offered, and then a hymn or psalm was 
sung in a low voice. 

This last exercise again startled Trueman. 

“ This singing or lulling is a Lollard practice, 
by my faith,” he whispered as it was concluded. 

But the blacksmith did not heed his words. 
He took the precious book, and locked it up in 
its hiding-place once more, again concealing the 
key beneath his jerkin. 

When he had wished the rest of his friends 
farewell, and he and Trueman were outside in 
the darkness, he said, “ What of the reading, 
Ned Trueman ? Didst thou ever hear such 
words before ? ” 


39 


A Night Encounter . 

" By my faith, I never did. Why, ’tis better 
than the preaching of the bishop at Paul’s Cross, 
and I have heard him there rating the Lollards 
most soundly after the heretic Wiclif had got 
off” 

Never mind Wiclif or the bishop either 
just now, but tell me, art sorry thou earnest 
with me ? ” 

“Nay, nay ; for right sensible men were they 
that were with Hugh Ryland, although they 
eschew the good ale which thou knowest I 
love to quaff when talking.” 

“ Nathless they thought the talk would be 
better without the ale.” 

“ Well, right goodly talk it was ; and if our 
citizens and hot-headed ’prentice lads would 
give heed to such counsel as they say our lord 
mayor is ready to give, instead of wasting their 
time junketing at Finsbury fields, the liberty 
we want might be gained, I trow, sooner than 
by fighting or rioting for it.” 

“ And the reading — was it as good as the 
talk ? ” asked Filpot, rubbing his hands with 
delight. 

“ Good ! ’Twas better than any thing I ever 
heard before ; and, Master Filpot, I tell thee this 
— I am a better judge in such a matter, I trow, 
than thou art, seeing I am the father of a way- 


40 


Conrad. 


ward son, who hath gone into a far country, 
and thou hast never had wife or child. I tell 
thee that book is true.” 

“ And wherefore dost thou judge it to be 
true, Ned Trueman ? ” asked his friend. 

“ Because the father in the book going .to 
meet his son, and forgetting all his offenses for 
joy at his return, is just what every father would 
do if he had the chance. I would, Master Fil- 
pot, if I only knew where my son was. I would 
journey to the far country myself, and fetch him 
back.” 

It was the blacksmith’s turn to be startled 
now, for he did not know that his friend had a 
son ; and to hear the usually stern old man 
speak as he now did was altogether so surpris- 
ing that for a minute or two he could only walk 
on in silence, and wonder at what he had heard. 

At last he managed to say, “ If any body told 
thee that book was false and evil, wouldst thou 
believe them ? ” 

“ I would not believe that what I have heard 
to-night is false or evil, for I have that within 
me that tells me it is true and good, if loving 
one’s children be good.” 

“ And thou dost not believe it to be evil ! ” 

“ Nay, nay ; ’tis the want of love that is the 
evil, I trow. If I had not been so stern with 


41 


A Night Encounter. 

my boy — but there, ’tis useless to tell thee of 
that now that he’s gone, only this : I know the 
father that book tells of is a true father, for I 
know it here,” and the old man laid his hand 
on his heart. 

At this point the conversation was suddenly 
interrupted by the two friends being seized from 
behind and their arms firmly pinioned. The 
blacksmith feared that spies must have been 
near Hugh Ryland’s cottage at some time, and 
that they were now seized as suspected Lollards ; 
but Ned Trueman, having no such fear, called 
most lustily for the watch. “ Watch ! watch ! ” 
resounded again and again, and several windows 
were opened close by, and the people, hearing 
that some one was in distress below, took up 
the cry, so that by like time the ruffians had 
succeeded in stopping Trueman’s mouth a 
dozen other voices had taken up the cry of 
“ Watch ! watch ! ” while lanterns began to cast a 
flickering light here and there, and the distant 
clatter of horses’ hoofs and the shouts of the 
watchmen announced the approach of the night 
patrol. 

The neighborhood being aroused, the foot- 
pads thought it would be best to make their 
escape without delay, which they did with little 
difficulty in the darkness ; and by the time the 


42 


Conrad. 


watch came up Master Filpot and his friend 
had somewhat recovered from their fright and 
alarm. But the thieves having escaped, the 
leader of the watch seemed disposed to treat 
their victims rather roughly. 

“ Who are ye, and what called ye abroad at 
nine of the clock on a winter’s night ?.” he 
asked savagely. 

Trueman answered with almost equal temper ; 
but the blacksmith, who knew that he had been 
to a meeting that might involve himself and 
friend in a good deal of trouble, answered more 
coolly and warily than his companion. 

“And so you would fain have us believe ye 
are honest citizens ; but how comes it, Master 
Blacksmith, or armorer — for ye are both, I trow 
— how comes it then, I s%, that ye are so often 
abroad when all other honest folks are in their 
beds?” 

Master Filpot almost trembled with anxiety, 
for to be suspected of a leaning toward Lollard- 
ism might be ruin ; but Ned Trueman, who was 
thoroughly roused, answered shortly and sharp- 
ly, “And are ye honest watchmen and our fel- 
low-citizens, or soldiers of King Richard, that ye 
would rob us of our liberty, and shut us within 
doors at the setting of the sun ? We be honest 
men, and if our business take us abroad at 


A Night Encounter. 43 

night as well as day, is it aught to any man but 
ourselves ? ” 

“ Then ye may look to yourselves if the 
rogues fall upon ye again,” said the watchman, 
climbing on his horse with as much speed as 
his cumbrous armor would permit. “Come, 
my men,” he called to the scattered patrol, and 
they had scarcely moved on their way before 
there was another terrified scream of “ Watch ! 
watch ! ” in the next street. 

Our two friends did not go to see how their 
fellow-victims fared, but hastened home with all 
speed, where, after seeing that the house was 
made secure against a midnight attack of an- 
other class of thieves, Master Filpot sat down 
to muse over the events of the evening. 

It was not often that he sat down to think as 
he now did, but the occurrences of the last hour 
or two had made him feel troubled and anxious. 
First, there was the promise he had given to 
Conrad about the reading lessons. Now that he 
came to think about the matter more calmly, he 
greatly doubted his power to learn this art 
himself. He was getting in years, although by 
no means so old as his friend, Ned Trueman ; 
and then his mind was so occupied with the 
cares of his business that he greatly feared his 
memory would fail him if tasked with such un- 


44 


Conrad. 


wonted work as remembering the forms of the 
different letters. Altogether he thought the 
project must be given up, and he would not go 
to see Conrad again. 

Then he thought of Ned Trueman, and the 
risk he had incurred by introducing him to 
their secret meeting. He had long desired that 
his old friend should share the privilege he en- 
joyed of hearing God’s word read, believing 
that the old man would soon cast off the super- 
stitions of the corrupt Romish Church, and em- 
brace the liberty with which God makes his 
people free ; but now that he had taken the- 1 — 
for him — daring step of introducing him to the 
little congregation of Lollards that met to read 
his book, he felt half afraid of what he had done, 
and was ready to blame himself as being too 
rash, in spite of what Ned Trueman had said 
on their way home. 

Then, last, but not the least cause of con- 
tinued alarm, was the attack made upon them 
on their way home, and the questioning of the 
watchman as to the business that took them 
abroad at that hour of the night. All these 
causes of disquietude by no means, tended to 
raise Master Filpot’s spirits, and he went to bed 
full of anxious care concerning the future, and 
the trouble he felt sure it had in store for him. 


45 


A Night Encounter. 

Poor man ! he forgot he had a Father in heaven 
who was read}/ to relieve him of the burden if 
he would only cast it upon him. Perhaps he 
had never heard the loving command of the 
apostle, “ Casting all your care upon him, for he 
careth for you.” The word of the Lord was 
precious in those days, for although Wiclif had 
translated the Scriptures into English, as well 
as the monk of Cornwall, John Trevisa, still as 
the art of printing was yet unknown, copies of 
these translations could be multiplied only by 
the slow and tedious process of writing. 

He was envied by many for his possession 
of the Gospels. They had cost him a very 
splendid suit of armor, and he thought the book 
a wonderful bargain at that price, for sometimes 
it took the savings of a life-time to purchase 
only one of the Gospels, and he was so rich as 
to have all four. But while thinking of his 
treasure as he lay in bed, he suddenly remem- 
bered that he had not seen the key of the chest 
where it was kept since he had been home, and 
he got up at once to look for it, unfastening all 
his clothes, for people slept in them in those 
days. But no ! hunt as he would, no key could 
be found. He searched the floor, and went 
down into the lower rooms ; but he could not 
find it, and with a groan of fear and apprehen- 


46 


Conrad. 


sion he threw himself on his straw pallet once 
more and tried to remember whether he had 
not felt for it after the thieves had left them. 

But no thought of the key had entered his mind 
until he had gone to bed, and so, try as he would, 
he could not recall any remembrance of being 
possessed of it after leaving Hugh Ryland’s 
cottage. 

This additional anxiety deprived him almost 
entirely of sleep for that night, and as soon as 
it was light he got up to search once more for 
the key of his treasure. But it seemed hope^ 
lessly lost, unless it had been left at Hugh Ry- 
land’s, and to ascertain this he resolved to go to 
the cottage in the course of the day and ask if 
it had been found there. No, Hugh had not 
seen it ; but, hearing of what had happened, he 
advised that inquiries should be made in the 
street, for if some of the neighbors had found it 
they would be willing to restore it. 

“ Ah ! but they will ask what my treasure is 
if I tell them I have lost the key of a chest,” 
said the blacksmith timidly. 

“ Nay, nay, they will not ; and should any 
question thee about it, tell them it is a work 
thou prizest ; but many would not think it of as 
much value as the chest in which it is kept. This 
is true, as thou knowest, Master Filpot, for the 


A Night Encounter. 47 

word of God is contemned by many in these 
days.” 

“ But marry, Hugh, if they — ” 

“Nay, nay; the Lord our God will provide 
thee with an answer when the question doth 
come, and, it may be, will bring good out of this 
seeming evil,” said Hugh cheerfully. 

The poor blacksmith seemed to gather 
strength and courage from his conversation 
with Hugh, and he set out to make inquiries 
with renewed hope of recovering his treasure. 


48 


Conrad. 


CHAPTER IV. 


GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 

O one accustomed only to the quiet of the 



-L country, the noise and din existing in the 
busy streets of the city were almost bewildering. 
Crowds of people stood round the open stalls 
— for there were no shops in those days — each 
chaffering with the merchant to obtain the article 
he sought to purchase at the lowest possible 
price, while the ’prentice lads ran hither and 
thither, helping their masters to exhibit their 
wares, or shouting at the top of their voice the 
prices and merits of their goods. Flemish ped- 
dlers, selling hats and spectacles, shouted “ Buy, 
buy! what will ye buy?” while the drapers’ as- 
sistants seized passengers by the shoulder, and 
compelled them to look at the velvet, and lawn, 
and silk, and Paris thread. A little farther on, 
and the blacksmith’s ears were deafened with 
the cries of “ Hot sheep’s feet and mackerel ; ” 
then came the stalls where pepper and saffron, 
spices and green ginger, were thrust before his 


eyes. 


It was in the neighborhood of these grocery 


Geoffrey Chaucer. 


49 


stalls that he had been attacked the previous 
night, and so it was here he must make his in- 
quiries. He began this business by making a 
purchase. Some pepper and saffron were ordered, 
and while these were being weighed he spoke 
about the attempt to rob him, and asked if a key 
had been found by any one near there. Every 
body had heard of the attempted robbery, but 
these night attacks upon unwary foot passen- 
gers were of such ‘common occurrence that 
no one thought much of them ; but the loss of 
a key was a more serious matter, and the mer- 
chant sent one of his ’prentice lads to make 
inquiries among the other shopkeepers ; but he 
came back in a few minutes, saying he could 
hear nothing of it. 

“ If thou wilt step in and speak to the dame, 
she will, doubtless, ask her wenches, for they 
may have heard something of it,” and the oblig- 
ing merchant led the way into his house at the 
back of the stall. Groping his way through 
bags of pepper and boxes of spices that seemed 
to occupy all the lower part of the house, he 
went up stairs to the family room, where a lady 
and her two daughters sat busily plying the 
distaff. 

“ Here, dame, I have brought thee a gossip 
who hath lost a key, and would fain have thee 


50 


Conrad. 


ask the wenches whether either of them found 
it ; ” and a meaning glance was exchanged be- 
tween the merchant and his wife. 

After her husband had left the lady looked 
keenly at Master Filpot, and then said, “ Is the 
key thine own ? ” 

“Yes, it is the key of a chest that — that — ” 
and then the blacksmith stopped, fearing he 
should betray his secret. 

“ And the chest — what doth it contain ? M 
asked the lady. 

“ Nay, that is my own business, good dame. 
If thy wenches know aught of this key, bid them 
restore it, I pray thee, and I will give them a 
silver penny each.” 

u Nay, we need not the money, good sir ; but 
’tis my daughter who is anxious that this key 
shall be given to none but the rightful owner, 
for she hath had it in her hand aforetime, and 
knoweth what is in the chest.” These last 
words were said in an impressive whisper, and 
the lady looked closely at the blacksmith while 
she spoke. 

His new-found courage forsook him in a mo- 
ment. “ Thou dost know what the chest con- 
tained ! ” he stammered. 

“ My daughter hath seen it — hath read it,” 
said Dame Winchester in a whisper. 


Geoffrey Chaucer. 5 1 

A ray of hope darted across the blacksmith’s 
mind : “ Then ye are — ” 

“ We are friends of the new lord mayor. We 
desire to see many things reformed,” said the 
lady cautiously. 

“ But — but my secret is safe.” 

“Yes, safe as thy key,” and she pushed aside 
the arras, and took it from a little receptacle in 
the wall. 

Master Filpot was so overjoyed at recovering 
his treasure that he forgot all his fear, and con- 
fided to Dame Winchester the secret of their 
meeting in Hugh’s cottage to read the Script- 
ures. 

The lady smiled. “’Tis not so great a secret 
as thou deemest it,” she said. 

“ Nay, but we have not been betrayed, I 
trow ? ” said her visitor in some alarm. 

“ Nay, but there are more friends of godly 
Master Wiclif than meet near the Bishop of 
Lincoln’s inn. Fear not, for though my daugh- 
ter hath seen thy book, and read from it one 
night when thou and Master Goldby were away, 
she would not bewray thee ; no, not if King 
Richard himself commanded it.” 

Thus reassured, the blacksmith went on to 
tell of his visit to Conrad and his grandmother, 
and the child’s desire to learn to read. , “ I have 
4 


52 


Conrad. 


promised to learn myself, that I may teach him,” 
he concluded, with something of a sigh. 

“ Thou wilt not find it easy work at thy time 
of life, I trow,” said Dame Winchester. “ My 
daughter was long in learning the look of the 
curious black marks, and yet the wench was 
anxious to learn, and deft at learning, too.” 

“ I wish she could teach the little knave, and 
save my old brains.” 

“ She might if she were abiding at home, for 
’tis not so far from Chepe to Hugh Ryland’s 
cottage but she might walk thither daily on 
such an errand, especially if the child wants to 
learn that he may read the Scriptures. But 
she goeth to her aunt’s next week, who liveth 
near to Holywell, and, therefore — ” 

But the blacksmith interrupted her at this 
point : “ Little Conrad hath taken a craze to go 
to Holywell, for the child is lame, and hath 
been told that the waters of the spring will 
heal him. I will talk to his grandame, and per- 
suade her to take the child thither to live for a 
time, and then thy daughter — ” 

Just at this moment the forked beard of the 
merchant was seen, as he thrust his head from 
behind the arras that hung in front of the 
door. 

“ What is it about the wench ? ” he asked ; 


Geoffrey Chaucer. 5 3 

and then, without waiting for an answer, he 
said : — 

“ I have brought the worshipful comptroller 
of customs for this our part of London, Master 
Geoffrey Chaucer, to see thee, dame,” and the 
merchant bustled about to find the best seat in 
the room for his visitor. 

He was anxious to do him honor, for he stood 
high in court favor, and, moreover, in his ca- 
pacity of comptroller of customs, might pos- 
sibly have it in his power to help forward or 
hinder some of the merchant’s business. 

But Dame Winchester forgot all about bags 
of pepper and boxes of saffron when she heard 
the name of “ Master Geoffrey Chaucer,” for 
her daughter Margery had told her a wonder- 
ful tale of his wit and learning and skill in 
poetry only the day before, and how he had 
been heard to say that he wbuld pull the cowl 
from monkish heads and show the world some- 
thing of their wickedness ; and she wondered 
now whether he was a favorer of the Lollards, or 
only hated the priests because he saw through 
their hypocrisy. 

But the lady was so overawed with the thought 
of Master Chaucer’s learning that, after courte- 
sying in a stately fashion, she could only sit 
and stare in silent wonder while her husband 


54 


Conrad. 


entered upon the business that had brought the 
comptroller to him, until he suddenly turned to 
his wife and said, “ Master Chaucer will dine 
with us, dame.” 

The good-natured merchant knew nothing 
of household management, and had not the 
least idea of putting his wife into such a flutter 
of fear and anxiety as he did. She left the 
room, leaving the blacksmith in a most uncom- 
fortable position ; he seemed to have been 
forgotten by every body, for the lady had dis- 
missed her daughters before entering into con- 
versation with the blacksmith, and now, in her 
anxiety to find them and set them to work, she 
forgot every thing else. 

“ Margery, Alice, where are ye ? Come, come, 
my wenches, we must hurry to the kitchen and 
the buttery, for your father hath asked Master 
Chaucer to dinner.” 

“ Master Chaucer ! ” exclaimed both girls in 
a breath. “ Mother, will he tell us anything of 
his wondrous poesy ? ” asked Margery. 

“ He will ask if thou hast ever seen aught 
beside salt fish and cabbage for dinner if we are 
not quick,” retorted her more practical sister. 

“ Mother, Master Chaucer hath dined at 
court ; we can never prepare dinner for him,” 
said Margery in dismay. 


Geoffrey Chaucer. 5 5 

“ Nay, but we must,” said Dame Winchester. 
“ He knoweth the law forbidding citizens to have 
more than two courses at dinner, and as the 
crane that was roasted yesterday hath not been 
cut, I will put it again on the spit, and bid Deb 
see that it doth not burn.” 

“ There is some stewed porpoise left and a 
high pasty.” 

Dame Winchester began to breathe more 
freely now. Like a general reviewing his forces 
she went through her buttery, calculating how 
many dishes she could send to table on such a 
short notice. With the help of her daughters 
several smaller castles of pastry were soon pre- 
pared, and these, with the high one already baked, 
and a few tigers, lions, and angels of jelly, would 
be sufficient for the second course ; while for 
the first there were the crane and stewed por- 
poise, and plenty of parsnips and carrots. 

To dress for dinner was as important in those 
days as in these, but not until every dish was 
ready to set on the table could Margery or her 
sister hope to leave the kitchen, for it was their 
province to prepare the meals, while Deb, their 
one maid-servant, did the dirty work of the 
house. The art of cooking was carefully learned 
by all ladies in those days, and Margery would 
have been as much ashamed of a broken tiger 


56 


Conrad. 


or an ill-made castle at the table, as we should 
be of a torn dress or some great breach of eti- 
quette. 

And so, while they dressed themselves in their 
new-fashioned gored kirtles, or skirts, that fitted 
them almost tight round their ankles, with 
scarcely a fold, their talk was all about the 
dishes they had been preparing, and their anx- 
iety lest one of them should prove a failure and 
bring disgrace upon them. 

But the upper table, where Master Winchester 
and his guest would sit, with their mother and 
themselves, was by no means a sight to be 
ashamed of when all the dishes were set on. 
The roasted crane, decorated with some of its 
own feathers, and gold and silver leaves, formed 
a handsome center, while round it were grouped 
the smaller dishes of vegetables and the stewed 
porpoise. The dishes themselves were a curios- 
ity in those days, and costly, too, and the girls 
were not a little proud of their new possession ; 
for to have the new-fashioned crockery-ware 
instead of silver dishes, such as could be hired 
anywhere in the city, proclaimed their father 
one of the richest merchants in Chepe. It was 
not the fashion for even grown-up young ladies 
to join in the conversation of their parents un- 
less invited to do so, and Dame Winchester was 


Geoffrey Chaucer. 


5 7 


too anxious to see her guest well served — that 
the gold cup at the side of his plate was duly- 
filled with the famous London ale, or mead — to 
pay much attention to the talk of her husband 
and Master Chaucer ; but Margery forgot even 
her manners in the interest of listening, and 
dipped her fingers at random into her plate, re- 
gardless of the laws of etiquette, which forbade 
more than the tips being used, or a crumb being 
dropped as it was being conveyed to her mouth. 

The merchant and his guest discussed all 
sorts of matters — the late marriage of the king, 
and the influence Anne was likely to have over 
him, and how it would be used. From Master 
Chaucer’s position as one of King Richard’s es- 
quires he would probably be able to tell them 
the truth about court affairs, and Master Win- 
chester wanted to know whether the general 
belief about the queen was a correct one. 

“ That she is a right merciful and gracious 
lady men are well assured, from what she hath 
already done for the witless rebels who followed 
Wat Tyler, and lay groaning in prison for their 
misdeed ; but *tis also said she is a pious lady, 
which I take to mean that she will be led by her 
confessor and the clergy to — to — well, to bind 
England more fast to the feet of the pope.” 

Master Chaucer smiled. “ Thou art no friend 


58 


Conrad. 


of the clergy, I perceive ; but fear not the piety 
of the queen, for she is, doubtless, as much a 
Lollard as thyself.” This was said in a lower 
tone, so that the servants and ’prentices sitting 
at the lower table below the salt might not hear ; 
but Master Winchester looked alarmed. 

“ I — I am friendly to the counsels of our Duke 
of Lancaster,” he said. 

“ And he is well called the father of this 
Lollardism, for it is through him that Master 
Wiclif is preaching at Oxenford still, instead of 
languishing in some monastery dungeon.’ 

“And thou, Master Geoffrey — what dost thou 
think of this Lollardism ?” 

But the comptroller shrugged his shoulders. 
“ I may help it if I be no Lollard myself,” he 
said enigmatically. 

“ Thou wilt help it with thy poesy ? ” the 
merchant said questioningly. 

“ Ah ! men will read poesy, I trow, and the 
follies and evil lives of the clergy — monks and 
friars, bishops and priests — shall be made known 
to all the world. Will it not make men seek 
other guidance, think you, when they learn 
that their guides are more blind than them- 
selves ? ” 

“Ah! that will they, and Master Wiclif ’s 
wonderful book of the Scriptures will be more 


Geoffrey Chaucer. 59 

eagerly sought than ever and speaking of the 
Bible brought to his remembrance their slighted 
visitor, the blacksmith. 

“ Didst thou forget the poor man I brought 
to thee this morning, Margery?” he said, sud- 
denly turning to his wife. 

She started at the question. “ Ah, truly I had 
forgotten him ! I am — ” 

“ Thou hast had the business taken out of 
thy hands now, dame. Thou wert talking of 
Madge teaching a little knave to read when we 
came in, and Master Chaucer knoweth some- 
thing of the child and his mother, and so ’tis 
settled he shall go and live near the spring of 
Holywell to drink the water, and have our 
Madge to teach him to read. 

Margery was delighted at the idea of doing 
any thing for so clever and learned a man as 
Master Chaucer ; and when he promised to 
come sometimes and see what progress her pupil 
made, and tell them something of his travels, and 
the strange things he had seen in the countries 
beyond the sea, as a reward for their diligence, 
Margery thought herself the most fortunate and 
highly favored girl in London. 


6o 


Conrad. 


CHAPTER V. 

DAME URSULA. 

S OFT May breezes had taken the place of 
the wintry winds, and spring sunshine was 
glowing on the budding leaves of the vines, and 
the apple blossom was making a goodly show in 
the orchards around what had now grown to be 
a fashionable suburban village — Holywell. So 
many invalids resorted to the spring at this 
season of the year that it was a very Bethesda, 
with halt, lame and blind crowding to drink its 
waters and pay their devotions in the neighbor- 
ing church. The Church reaped a rich harvest 
of votive offerings at such seasons as these, and 
kept a jealous eye upon such as were suspected 
of this Lollardism, who yet dared to drink of 
this water which the Church alone had the 
power to render curative in its effects. 

There had been little difficulty in conveying 
Conrad and his grandmother to this fashionable 
resort, and his mother was with him, too, just 
now, for a short time ; for the Court had gone to 
Eltham palace for a few weeks, or, rather, King 
Richard and his beloved bride had chosen to 


Dame Ursula. 


6 r 


retire for a few weeks into the country, only 
taking with them a few of their usual attend- 
ants, so that half the Court was now at Holy- 
well, and nearly every house was full of visitors. 

Master Geoffrey Chaucer had kept his prom- 
ise, and Margery Winchester had kept hers, 
and was diligently teaching little Conrad to 
read. She found him an apt and intelligent 
pupil, but he puzzled her sorely by his strange 
questions sometimes. 

“ Mistress Margery, wilt thou tell me what 
this dreadful word ‘ Lollards ’ doth mean — all it 
means ? ” he asked one day. 

“ Why ? what hath this word to do with us 
or our reading?” she asked, scarcely knowing 
how to answer the boy. 

“ Because my grandame saith I shall cer- 
tainly be a Lollard if I learn this reading, and 
there was a holy friar here yesterday begging, 
and he said if a Lollard ventured too near the 
holy spring it would boil up and scald him, and 
its waters, so good and healing to the faithful, 
would be changed into deadly poison by the 
evil that dwelleth in a Lollard if he dared to 
drink it.” 

Margery smiled at the superstitious tale, and 
yet she hardly knew what to do— how to con- 
tradict it without betraying her own leaning 


62 


Conrad. 


toward the hated doctrine. “ Did the friar tell 
you this himself?” she asked. 

“Yes, I — I think my grandame told him to 
tell me the story for fear I should get ‘ tainted,’ 
as she calls it, through learning to read, and 
that should hinder me from being cured.” 

“ But it would not, Conrad ; the waters will 
do you just as much good after you have learned 
to read as before. Perhaps the friar was mis- 
taken about what he told you.” 

But Conrad shook his head. “ My grandame 
said he could not have been mistaken. He was 
so holy and so dirty that — that I could hardly 
bear the sacred smell of his clothes. Was it a 
great sin to feel sick while he stood near me, 
and glad when he went away ? ” 

“ No, Conrad, you could not help feeling sick, 
I am sure ; and God, who knows just how we 
feel, would not be angry at what we cannot 
help — what is natural to every one who is 
cleanly in his ways. I think that the filthy 
habits of the friars are sinful rather than holy — 
indeed, I feel sure that they are.” 

“ O, Mistress Margery, do not let my gran- 
dame hear you say this or she will be so angry, 
for she says the dirty clothes of the friars are a 
proof of their holiness. O dear! what a puzzle 
this holiness is, too ! I can’t understand it at all ; 


Dame Ursula. 


63 

for, of course, the bishops are holy, more holy 
than the friars, or the Church would not give 
them so much power ; and yet, instead of wearing 
a ragged, dirty old frock and cowl, and a rope 
girdle, like the friars, they wear splendid red 
and purple capes, embroidered with gold and 
costly stones. Now, how is it, Mistress Margery, 
that God can be so pleased with such different 
things — such filth and such riches ? for they are 
alike holy, my grandame saith.” 

“ I have learned that holiness is of the heart 
rather than of the outward appearance,” said 
Margery somewhat timidly ; “ man looketh at 
the outward appearance, and it is to please man 
rather than God that bishops and friars display 
such luxury and such filth, my father saith. 
Bishops would not be suffered to go to court 
and dwell among the rich and powerful in the 
dirty clothes of a friar ; while for the friars, if 
they were in no more sorry plight than the poor 
people, of whom they often beg, they would get 
but poor alms from any.” 

“ Nay, nay ! but thou art forgetting that ’tis 
God and not man these seek to please,” said 
Conrad quickly. 

“I wot that if they sought to please God 
they would live less evil, selfish lives,” said 
Margery boldly. 


6 4 


Conrad. 


“Nay, nay! speak not evil of bishops and 
priests, for ’tis next to reviling the holy father 
himself, and that were sin, indeed — *a sin as 
great as Lollardism,” he added. 

“Why art thou so afraid of Lollardism, 
seeing thou knowest so little what it is ?” asked 
Margery. 

“ My grandame hath taught me to hate it ; 
she says it is an evil worse than witchcraft, a 
sin greater than all others ; that — that — but you 
must keep this quite secret, Mistress Margery 
— that this evil of heresy hath made her life 
and my mothers most miserable/’ 

“ And thy mother— -doth she hate it as 
fiercely ? ” asked Margery. 

But at this moment the door of the room was 
hastily pushed open, and Conrad, holding out 
his arms, uttered a scream of delight. “ My 
mother ! my mother ! ” he shouted, and the next 
minute he was folded in her arms. 

Margery would have crept away, and left 
them to themselves, but the lady turned toward 
her as she rose from her seat. “ Thou art 
Mistress Margery, I think,” she said in a pleas* 
ant voice, and she begged Margery to sit down 
again. “Accept my thanks for thy teaching,” 
she said eagerly. “ I have often wished that 
my Conrad could learn to read, but my mother 


Dame Ursula . 


65 


was so averse to it — so disliked the thought 
that he should ever learn the art — that, like a 
coward, I have feared to ask any to do it, lest it 
should vex her above measure.” 

“ I have heard that Dame Ursula doth great- 
ly dislike that any should learn this art,” said 
Margery. 

“ Yes, yes ; and it is no marvel, for she hath 
suffered much through it ; we have all suffered, 
and must still suffer,” she added, while a look 
of anguish came into her face ; and then, for the 
first time, Margery noticed that the face, though 
fair and regular in feature, looked prematurely 
old, and there were lines of pain in it that only 
deep heart anguish could have written there, 
while among the abundant chestnut hair were 
streaks of gray that ought to have delayed their 
appearance for many years yet. 

“ My mother, when I have learned to read 
may I have the book the queen gave thee for 
me?” asked Conrad in a half whisper. 

But for answer the mother burst into tears. 
“ What am I to do ? What shall I do ? I 
thought I had once settled all this forever — 
sacrificed all at the bidding of Holy Church and 
my mother — and that, having done this, the 
question would be forever at rest, and I should 
only have to beat down my own heart and keep 


66 


Conrad. 


it in its prison, where — But what am I say- 
ing ? ” she suddenly exclaimed, with an hysterical 
laugh, as Dame Ursula entered the room. 

“ Thou art late, Ermengarde,” she said, some- 
what sternly ; “ I have been wgtching for thee 
near the wooden cross, for I have somewhat to 
say to thee on a private matter.” 

“I will attend thee, my mother. Stay with 
Conrad until I return,” she said, turning to 
Margery, and then she followed her mother to a 
little turret chamber, where they were safe from 
all intruders. 

“ Thou art ill, mother,” said Dame Ermen- 
garde as her mother sat down, panting for 
breath, as soon as the door was shut. 

“ No, I am not ill, and I shall not be ill until 
my work is done. Thou knowest what that work 
is, Ermengarde ? ” Her daughter nodded, but 
could not trust herself to speak. 

“Yes, thou knowest the task I have set my« 
self to accomplish, and thou art trying to frus- 
trate it,” said Dame Ursula in a measured tone. 

“ What have I done ? what wouldst thou 
have me do more than I have done to prove my 
faithfulness to the Church ? O mother, mother, 
be merciful ! I have crushed down my heart at 
thy bidding, and daily resist its strugglings still.” 

“ And who brought all this struggle into our 


Dame Ursula. 


67 


lives ? Dost thou think thou art the only one 
that suffereth ? But let us forget this. We 
have a work to do, Ermengarde, and we must do 
it ; the stigma, the shame, must and shall be re- 
moved from crur family, and our faithfulness to 
the service of the Church once more placed 
above suspicion.” 

Dame Ermengarde bowed her head. “ I have, 
promised to help thee in this thy heart’s desire ; 
what wouldst thou have me to do ? ” 

“ Send this wench away, this Mistress Mar- 
gery ? ” she commanded. 

“ But, my mother, what hath she done ?” 

“ She is teaching Conrad this hateful art of 
reading.” 

“ And I thanked her for it but now ; for if this 
holy spring should not cure Conrad, and he 
should be ever a cripple, this will help him to 
pass many an hour that else were weary and 
full of complaint.” 

“ And is it not for the boy’s sake I bid thee 
send the wench away ? I tell thee she is more 
than half a Lollard, or the water Conrad hath 
drank and hath had rubbed into his flesh would 
have cured him ere now. It is her evil spells 
that turn aside the good the water would do, 
and, but for my constant prayers and penances., 

would turn it wholly to poison, I trow.” 

5 


68 


Conrad. 


Ermengarde did not share her mothers su- 
perstitious fears, but she dared not disregard 
them altogether. “ I do not think she will harm 
our Conrad,” she said, “ and it will, doubtless, do 
the child good to have something to think on 
besides his sore calamity.” 

“ But this calamity must be removed ; he will 
be cured ; he must be when the cause that 
brought this evil upon him is removed.” 

“And is it not removed? Are we not far 
enough ? O my mother ! ” And all Dame Er- 
mengarde’s firmness gave way, and she burst 
into a passionate flood of tears. 

“ Hush, Ermengarde, and yield not to such 
weakness. Doubtless the past hath cost thee 
some pain ; render it not useless by refusing to 
do my bidding now.” 

“ But, my mother, the water of this well hath 
been of little use to our Conrad ; how, then, 
canst thou hope he will be cured by it ? ” 

“ Dost thou believe in the power of the saints 
to cure disease ? Thou shalt believe ere long, 
and then, perhaps, thy wavering faith in the pow- 
er of the Church will be renewed. Ermengarde, 
I am going on pilgrimage to the shrine of the 
most powerful saint in heaven, St. Thomas of 
Canterbury ; surely, surely, he will hear my 
plea and cure our Conrad, for he hath a claim 


Dame Ursula . 69 

upon him through — ” But there the old woman 
suddenly stopped. 

Her daughter did not notice the abrupt pause, 
for she was lost in astonishment at what had been 
said just before. “You go on pilgrimage, my 
mother ! ” she slowly said in a low voice. 

“ And wherefore should I not go ? ” demanded 
Dame Ursula. 

“ But you — in this strange country of which 
we know so little, although we spoke its lan- 
guage before we came, and to which we are so 
closely united ? ” 

“ United ! yes ; Bohemia is united to England 
by this marriage of King Wenceslaus’ sister to 
King Richard of England, but in no other way 
do I own that we are united/’ said Dame Ursula 
fiercely. 

“ But you said you had a right to the favor 
of St. Thomas because of — ” 

“ Hush, Ermengarde ! I forbid you to speak 
of this,” interrupted the old lady, almost trem- 
bling with passion. 

It scarcely needed such a fierce command, for 
Dame Ermengarde was too much overcome by 
her own feelings, apparently, to say any more, 
and she sat and sobbed in silence for a few 
minutes. But seeing the bitter, angry look in 
her mother’s face, she subdued her emotion at 


70 


Conrad. 


last, and said, “ Is it to secure Conrad’s cure 
that thou art going to Canterbury ? ” 

“ Yes, I cannot trust to the water of the holy 
well after what' I have heard from a friar who 
was preaching here last week.” 

“ What hast thou heard, mother ? ” 

“ Little more than I knew before ; but I will 
tell thee that thou mayest keep strict watch 
and ward over the child while I am gone, lest 
the evil thing come nigh him, and do him even 
more grievous harm.” 

“ Nay, thou knowest I would suffer no evil to 
come near my Conrad,” said his mother. 

“I trow not,” replied Ursula; “but since 
thou didst learn to call good evil and evil good 
thou art scarcely a judge in this matter, and 
therefore I say, keep all strangers from him, 
and specially this London merchant’s daughter, 
this Mistress Margery, for she would not have 
learned this art of reading, I trow, were there 
not a book of the Scriptures to read, which thou 
knowest the Church hath forbidden.” 

Dame Ermengarde did not dare to tell her 
mother that she had in her possession the whole 
of the New Testament, as translated into En- 
glish by Wiclif, which had been presented to 
her by the queen for Conrad when he could 
read. She only said, 


I • 


Dame Ursula. 71 

“But, my mother, hast thou seen Mistress 
Margery with a book of the Scriptures ? ” 

“ Seen it ? ” almost screamed the old woman, 
“ dost thou think I would ever suffer the wench 
to come into my presence — ever to speak to the 
child again — if I had seen that ? Nay, nay, I 
have not seen it, Ermengarde,” said the old 
lady more quietly, “ but I suspect her, and I 
think she knows it. I watch her often ; listen 
behind the arras, when she thinks I am far 
away." 

“ O, my mother, thou wilt not — ” 

“ Dost thou not know what I would do ? I 
tell thee the deed is a virtuous and noble one. 
Father Anselm, my confessor, saith that all 
deeds are pure and good if done in the service 
of holy Church, and surely she hath not a more 
faithful servant than poor old Ursula." 

•No, in this age of blind superstition and ig- 
norance she had few slaves so blind as Dame 
Ursula; but that was not the fault of the 
Church. The light of knowledge she had ef- 
fectually hidden, and liberty of conscience she 
was determined to strangle in its birth. It was 
a new thing in the world that England and 
Bohemia had dared to attempt — a few earnest 
souls, at least That men should venture to 
think for themselves, or think otherwise than 


72 


Conrad. 


as the Church directed, was something so start- 
ling that at first neither pope nor bishops could 
believe it ; but they were beginning to wake up 
to the danger with which they were threatened, 
and to realize that the new light and liberty 
must be crushed at all costs, and by all the 
means that they could command, either great 
or small. 







Damp Ursula Going a Pilgrimage to Canterbury 



Going on Pilgrimage. 


7 5 


CHAPTER VI. 

GOING ON PILGRIMAGE. 

T HERE was quite a commotion in the little 
village of Holywell when it became known 
that Dame Ursula was going on pilgrimage to 
Canterbury ; and several others who had long 
been making up their minds to undertake the 
same pious errand, when the roads should be 
less infested with robbers, resolved to accom- 
pany her, for Father Anselm had arranged that 
she should join a large party of pilgrims who 
were to meet at a hostelry in Southwark, and 
start from thence on their journey into Kent. 

Dame Ursula wore a large cloak and a high- 
pointed head-dress, in defiance of her daughter’s 
advice that it would be better to lay aside this 
portion of her national costume and wear a 
broad-brimmed hat, like the miller’s wife, who 
was likewise to be one of the party. With 
them would ride a nun, the prioress of a neigh- 
boring convent, who was taking this journey 
partly for pleasure, partly for health, although 
she talked much of the benefits her convent 


;6 


Conrad. 


was to receive from the special intercession of 
the saint. 

Besides these three ladies there was a monk, 
a manciple, a yeoman, and a merchant of Chepe, 
and at the Tabord Inn, in Southwark, the gen- 
eral rendezvous for pilgrims going to Canter- 
bury, a still larger party would meet them, to 
travel together for mutual safety and conven- 
ience. But they were not the only people rid- 
ing forth from Holywell that fine spring morn- 
ing, for a large party of friends were goingwith 
the pilgrims as far as the postern of London 
Bridge, and one of these was Master Geoffrey 
Chaucer. He, with some other officers of the 
Court, not being required to attend King Rich- 
ard at Eltham, and his post of comptroller of 
the customs being almost a sinecure, was at 
leisure to spend a few days among the genial 
gossips gathered at Holywell ; and what more 
pleasant than to ride through the country lanes 
of Holborn, 'cracking jokes with the pilgrims, 
and giving them directions for their journey ? 
which he was well able to do, for he had trav 
eled in almost every country in Europe, and 
knew how to profit by what he saw passing 
around him. 

“If Master Chaucer would but journey 
with us our travel would be to more profit, I 


Going on Pilgrimage. 77 

trow,” said the monk as he adjusted the gold 
brooch that fastened his cowl. 

“ Nay, nay, sir monk, thou mayest teach 
them to profit better than old Chaucer. What 
say you to telling them some legend or tale of 
what thou hast seen or heard in thy life-time ? ” 
“ Nay, I know naught but the legends of my 
brethren the saints,” said the monk. 

“ Ha, ha ! thou wouldst have us believe that 
all monks and priests are saints instead of sin- 
ners, as they are ? But ’twill not do, sir monk ; 
we can see the fox’s nose peeping from under 
the cowl, and the wolfs tail from beneath the 
gown. Well now, my honest yeoman, since 
the monk cannot teach thee, wilt thou not try 
to teach him ? for I wot he knows but little 
except hunting and eating. What sayestthou ? 
hast thou a tale ready for this good company ? ” 
But the yeoman laughingly shook his head, 
while the monk, seeing the laugh of every body 
was turned against him, cast an angry look at 
Master Chaucer as he said, “ If thou hast been 
in perils of travel thou shouldst rather exhort 
these diligently to assoil their soul from all sin 
by true confession and penance, that if we come 
not to the shrine of the blessed Saint Thomas 
he may receive us into eternal rest.” 

“ Nay, nay ! what do we keep an army of lazy 


78 


Conrad. 


monks for, but to look after our souls’ concerns 
for us ? ” said Chaucer in a bantering tone ; then, 
seeing that his words were likely to be taken 
too seriously, he added, “ Do thy duty, sir 
monk, and exhort these people an thou wilt. I 
am a man of little wit, and can but tell a tale, 
which thing, I trow, any man can do ; and so for 
the lightening of thy travel I should advise each 
one to tell a tale in turn as thou goest to 
Canterbury ; and forasmuch as ye do part there, 
each one seeking a hostelry that best suiteth 
him, but are pledged to return together, ye 
shall relate as ye travel back all that befell ye 
in the city of the blessed saint.” 

Many smiled at the proposal, and thought it 
a good one ; but that it should be carried out 
no one was willing to promise. Master Chau- 
cer made his peace with the monk when he 
reached a vintner’s near London Bridge, for 
the holy father loved a stoup of red wine better 
even than a roast crane, and with a good draught 
of this to refresh him he now took the lead of 
the party until they should reach the Tabord, 
and the company of friends turned back toward 
the fields of Holborn, wondering when they 
should see the pilgrims return. 

Among those who had accompanied them 
on this first stage of the journey were our old 


79 


Going on Pilgrimage . 

friends, Masters Filpot and Trueman. They had 
walked beside the yeoman, and he was the 
bearer of sundry messages to old friends who 
had lived in the neighborhood of Canterbury 
twenty years before, and, therefore, were likely 
to be there still unless death had summoned 
them away. 

Besides these were Dame Ermengarde, who 
had gone thus far with her mother, listening to 
her directions and exhortationsabout the manage- 
ment of the house and little Conrad, until she 
felt a positive relief when the monk took his 
place at the head of the procession, near London 
Bridge, and the palfreys of the three ladies 
slowly ambled after him. 

At last she was free — free to breathe a sigh 
or shed a tear without being questioned and 
scolded ; free to love her boy and show that 
love, and, better still, to talk to him without 
fear of her words being overheard and miscon- 
strued. She wondered whether Conrad would 
miss her and look for her return, or whether he 
would be so taken up in mastering the difficul- 
ties of learning to read that he would forget 
how long she had been away. Mistress Mar- 
gery was with him, for she had summoned 
courage enough to refuse to send her away, 
although her mother had tried again and 


8o 


Conrad. 


again, urging every thing she could think of to 
induce her to separate Conrad from such a dan- 
gerous teacher as she chose to consider her. 

She was still thinking of Conrad and Margery, 
wondering whether the girl was a Lollard, as her 
mother declared, when she was joined by Master 
Geoffrey Chaucer, who knew her as one of the 
attendants of the new queen. 

“ Now, prithee, if thou canst stay thy steps a 
little for an old man, I will bear thee company 
to Holywell. How is thy little knave, Conrad ? ” 

Dame Ermengarde looked surprised at the 
question, for she did not know that Master 
Chaucer had been the active agent in the child’s 
removal, or that he knew any thing of him. In- 
deed, it seemed to her that he had assumed an 
altogether different character this morning, and 
she could scarcely recognize Master Geoffrey, 
the quiz and torment of the monk, as the quiet, 
thoughtful man who went about his duties when 
he was in the palace in a half-abstracted sort 
of fashion, as though weightier thoughts were 
in his mind than dancing attendance on the 
king would be likely to give him. 

He laughed merrily at Dame Ermengarde’s 
perplexed look. “ Thou didst not know that I 
had been to see thy little knave with my young 
gossip, Margery Winchester,” he said. 


Going on Pilgrimage . 8 1 

“ Thou dost know Margery Winchester — 
Mistress Margery, who is teaching my little 
Conrad to read ? Then thou canst tell rne 
whether my mother’s fears are true or false. 
Is she — is she — ” 

But there Dame Ermengarde stopped. Per- 
haps she feared to have her own suspicions 
confirmed, and thus be unable to combat her 
mother’s objections to- the girl’s visits when she 
should return. 

Master Chaucer waited for her to finish what 
she was about to say ; but, finding she did not, 
he said, “ I know not what Dame Ursula’s fears 
may be concerning her, but she is a right proper 
maiden, and the daughter of an honest mer- 
chant, living in the Chepe. Will that suffice 
thee, Dame Ermengarde ? ” he asked. 

“ Yes, yes ; I am truly thankful for the service 
she hath done my little knave, and be she what 
she may, I — ” 

But here they were interrupted by the appear- 
ance of Master Filpot and his friend. For no 
sooner did Master Geoffrey recognize the black- 
smith than he said, “ Here is another of thy 
son’s gossips, Dame Ermengarde ; ” and then, 
turning to Filpot, he said, “ T^is is little Con- 
rad’s mother.” 

The two, thus formally introduced, looked curi- 


82 


Conrad. 


ously at each other ; and, indeed, they formed 
a strange contrast — the fair, fragile, worn wom- 
an, and the hale, hearty, happy looking old 
man. 

“ And thou dost know my Conrad ? ” she 
uttered in a tone of surprise. 

“ Ah ! I know the little knave — learned almost 
to love him the first time I saw him,” answered 
the blacksmith. 

“ That is no marvel, I trow, for thou dost love 
every one except they treat thee worse than any 
dog,” grunted Trueman. 

“ Well, gossip, thou also wouldst love the lit- 
tle knave, I wot, if thou couldst see and hear 
him talk as I did.” 

“Ha, ha! but he would never set my old head 
aching after book learning, as he did thine. 
Marry, it were a pretty tale to tell, that Filpot, the 
armorer, had forgotten the fashioning of cuirass 
and helmet, and taken to this new art of read- 
ing, that he might teach a little knave.” 

“Thou wert a right brave man to think of 
such a plan, Filpot,” said Master Chaucer ; “ but 
the little knave learneth faster under the teach- 
ing of Mistress Margery, I trow. Thou seest, 
Dame Ermeng^de, that many are anxious for 
thy little Conrad in this matter.” 

“ I thank thee with my whole heart, gentle 


Going on Pilgrimage. 8 3 . 

sir, for thy kind thought for my boy,” said 
Dame Ermengarde with emotion. 

“Ah ! thou dost owe it to worthy Master Fil- 
pot that Mistress Margery came to teach him 
this clerkly learning. Thou wilt come with us, 
Filpot, and see the little knave to-day.” 

“ Nay, nay, Master Chaucer, I must to my 
stithy, I ween, now that I have seen the pil- 
grims fairly on their journey.” 

• “ But I say thou must and shall wend thy way 

to Holywell for this day at least. Thy friend 
shall come with thee, too ; it will do the little 
knave good to see such a merry party. What 
sayest thou, Dame Ermengarde ? ” 

“ I shall be sorely grieved if these gossips 
refuse our request. I shall take it that they have 
grown tired of showing kindness to my little 
Conrad, or that they do not believe in his 
mother’s gratitude for their kindness.” 

“ Nay, nay, then ; if thou wilt force us by such 
argument, we must come, I trow. Thou wilt 
go with me, Gossip Trueman.” 

“ Did I not say thou shouldst do with me as 
it best pleased thee for this one day ? ” growled 
out the mason. 

“ Ah ! an’ I* will, and we will go to Holywell 
until sundown, and then go and tell Hugh Ry- 
land how it fareth with Dame Ursula.” 


Conrad. 


. 84 

“ As you like, as you like,” grunted Trueman, 
and so it was agreed that they should spend the 
rest of the day with Dame Ermengarde and her 
little son, and that, if Mistress Margery had not 
gone, she should be asked to stay with them. 

The little lame boy, so weak and helpless, 
seemed to exercise a sort of charm upon all 
who came near his couch. Learned Master 
Chaucer felt it almost as strongly as gentle 
Mistress Margery, or kindly Master Filpot ; but 
that the stern, rugged mason, Master Trueman, 
should yield himself wholly to the same spell 
no one expected, and yet, strange to say, he 
seemed drawn to the child’s side by a sort of 
fascination from the very moment that he first 
saw him. 

When Mistress Margery left her place near 
his pillow he at once seized the chance of 
taking it, and, though he rarely spoke to the boy 
himself, he sat watching his face and listening 
to every word he said with an eagerness that 
could not but be noticed by all who saw it. 

Conrad’s first question after his visitors were 
seated was, of course, about the pilgrims, and 
how his grandmother had borne her journey to 
London Bridge. “ My grandame is sorely 
vexed in soul that the waters of the holy well 
have not cured me, or at least given me some 


Going on Pilgrimage. 85 

strength in my legs and back,” he said, with 
something of a sigh. 

“ And dost thou think this visit to Canter- 
bury will do thee more good than the water ? ” 
asked Master Filpot. 

“ Nay, I know not what to think, for gran- 
dame hath been to Houndsditch, and given 
alms to the sick folk there, and besought their 
prayers. One hath promised to intercede with 
the Holy Virgin, sweet Mother of Mercy, for 
me ; and another will pray to St. Thomas of 
Canterbury, who, they say, is the most power- 
ful saint in England now ; while another will 
beseech every saint she knows of, and hath done 
so, I doubt not ; and yet it seemeth that the 
saints cannot or will not help me.” 

“ They cannot ,” said Mistress Margery im- 
pulsively ; “ they have no more power to hear 
and answer prayer than I have.” 

Master Trueman stared at the speaker, as 
though he could not have heard aright ; while 
the blacksmith sat and fidgeted on his stool, 
wishing Margery would be more cautious in 
what she said, and fearing that his old friend 
would be too much shocked ever to hear any 
thing more of the new reformed doctrine that 
he was trying gradually to unfold to his mind. 

Master Chaucer smiled as he said, “ Art thou 
6 


86 


Conrad. 


not fearsome of offending the saints by thy bold 
speech ? ” 

“Nay, Master Chaucer, thou knowest that 
the saints were but men and women like our- 
selves, whom God helped to live holy lives, but 
never gave them power to answer prayer.” 

“ Mistress Margery, what dost thou mean ? 
What can we do if the saints cannot hear 
us ? ” asked Conrad ai^iously, and the tears 
welled up to the boy’s eyes, and his slight frame 
quivered as he spoke. 

“ God can answer prayer, Conrad,” whispered 
Mistress Margery ; “ but we will talk of this an- 
other time ; ” and, fearing she had already said 
too much, she now rose to leave, and no one 
tried to prevent her departure. 


Was She a Lollard ? 


87 


CHAPTER VII. 

WAS SHE A LOLLARD ? 

“ TV T ISTRESS MARGERY, wilt thou not 

tVA tell me now of what thou didst say- 
yesterday concerning the saints, and their not 
hearing our prayers ? ” 

The subject had scarcely been absent a mo- 
ment from Conrad’s mind since the previous 
day, and he had trembled between hope and 
fear lest Margery’s explanation should prove 
her to be one of those dreadful Lollards who 
talked of nothing but the heretic Wiclif, and 
reviled the pope, and bishops, and every thing 
that was holy. 

This had been his grandmother’s account of 
them, and it seemed that Margery was about to 
confirm its truth, and declare herself one of 
the hated sect by her statement concerning the 
saints. 

“ Margery, thou wilt tell me all— every thing 
that thou dost believe. I asked the worshipful 
Master Chaucer what he thought thy meaning 
could be after thou hadst gone, but he only 


ss 


Conrad. 


shook his head, and said religion was growing 
to be a great puzzle. Why should it be a puz- 
zle, Margery, when we have so many to teach 
us all about it, popes and bishops and monks 
and friars ? why should it be a puzzle ? ” 

“ I don’t know, unless it be that, there being 
so many teachers, they have grown idle, and 
from learning and doing little have come to 
learn or do nothing except how they shall blind 
men to their ignorance while they follow their 
own pleasure.” 

“Did Master Chaucer tell thee that, Mar- 
gery ? ” 

“ No ; why shouldst thou think he did ? ” 

“Because — but there, I do not know. Never 
mind Master Chaucer now ; tell' me what thou 
dost mean about the saints not hearing our 
prayers.” 

“ I mean that they cannot hear our prayers, 
and we have no right to offer them to any but 
God himself, or worship any but God himself.” 

“ But thou didst say they were holy, Mar- 
gery.” 

“Yes, they were, mostly, men and women 
whom God helped to live holy, blameless lives ; 
but we must not forget that they were men and 
women.” 

“ But they are saints in heaven now, yet they 


Was She a Lollard ? 


89 

remember all the pains they suffered here, and 
so can feel for us. Dost thou believe this, 
Margery ? ” asked Conrad, anxiously. 

“ We know not how much or how little the 
saints can understand of what is going on here. 
Of course, they would feel for us if they could 
understand, and, would help us, too, if they 
could.” 

“ Then why cannot they ? O, Margery, thou 
wilt not tell me that the saints cannot hear me 
pray — that God will not let them hear!” ex- 
claimed the boy. 

“But, Conrad, suppose God should himself 
listen to what thou art saying ? ” 

But the bare suggestion of such a thing made 
the child shiver with a nameless fear and dread. 

“ I want the saints to hear me,” he murmured. 
“My grandame saith*that it is God who hath 
so sorely afflicted me, and so it is only the 
saints who can make me strong, and able to run 
about like other boys. I lie here thinking of it 
at night, and wondering what it must be to 
stand erect and feel the beautiful grass under 
my feet, and then I wonder why I cannot — why 
God hath so sorely punished me, and — and — 
I wonder what it is grandame talks about some- 
times as the shame of our family.” 

The tears had welled into Margery’s eyes as 


9 o 


Conrad. 


the boy spoke, and her voice trembled when 
she said, “ But, Conrad, thou must try to think 
more of God’s love.” 

“ God’s love ! ” repeated the boy ; “ nay, nay, 
Margery, how can he love me and make me 
suffer so sorely. My mother loveth me and 
longeth to see me well and strong, I know. My 
grandame loveth me, and hath gone to Canter- 
bury for my sake, that I might be cured ; and 
thou, wouldst not thou do me good ? ” 

“Yes, yes; nathless, I would do any thing 
that could give thee the strength thou needest,” 
answered Margery. 

“And the saints would doubtless help me 
if — if God would let them, Margery ; but he will 
not, thou sayest, and how canst thou say he lov- 
eth me,” and Conrad burst into a flood of tears. 

“ O, hush, Conrad, and* let me try to explain 
something of how I think it is. God doth love 
thee, and it is because of this — because he lov- 
eth us so well, that he will not let the saints 
hear and answer our prayers. First he would 
have us to know and love himself, which we 
should not do if the saints were to come be- 
tween. Suppose thou hadst never seen thy 
mother, but some others were allowed to do all 
that they could and would do for thee, and thou 
lookedst to them for all thou needst. Thou 


Was She a Lollard ? 


9 * 


wouldst soon forget her, I trow, and her heart 
would be grieved — even as we grieve the heart 
of God when we pray to the saints instead of 
to him. Then, too, the saints are not wise as 
God, nor do they know all that will come upon 
us, as he doth ; and so, when we prayed to them 
to take something away because it hurt us, they 
might take from us just the best thing — just 
the very thing God hath given us because he 
loveth us and willeth to do us good.” 

“ But, Margery, no one would ask the saints 
to take a good thing from us, I trow.” 

“ We may not know that it is good ; we may 
call the good thing evil, because we are not 
wise. When I was a little wench I fell down 
and hurt my arm so sorely that a skillful leecher 
had to be fetched, and he bound my arm up 
with some curious stones in the bandage, and 
very soon it began to hurt me, arid I cried to 
my mother to take it off ; but she was wiser 
than her little wench, I trow, and said, No. But 
my sister and the maids would have unfastened 
it at my piteous crying, not because they loved 
me more than my mother, but because they 
were not so wise or so patient to bear my pas- 
sionate cties.” 

« But, Margery, this weakness cannot he 
good, like thy bandage or stones,” said Conrad, 


92 


Conrad. 


“ We cannot see that it is good, because we 
are not wise as God, and we cry to him and to the 
saints ; and, perhaps, if they could help us they 
would, but they would spoil God’s work in us, 
and the work too, perhaps, that he means us to 
do in the world. And so God keepeth the 
help in his own hands that we may seek him 
only for it, and because we might wear out the 
patience of the saints by our impatient cries, 
and they should give us what we cry for, though 
it should do us harm.” 

But Conrad shook his head sadly. Margery’s 
words were “ a hard saying,” to him, and he 
could not receive it yet. 

“ Margery, hast thou ever thought that I 
shall never be able to do any work in the world 
— any man’s work, I mean — unless I do get 
strong and receive the use of my limbs ? ” 

“ Thou mayest do God’s work, Conrad — the 
work he doth mean thee to do — some special 
work that thou canst perform all the better for 
thy lameness.” 

But the boy still shook his head. 

“ The work for me — the only right work for 
me — is to take care of my mother and gran- 
dame. I have heard Father Anselm say it many 
times, and he would shake his head, and look at 
my grandatne very hard. Margery, I wonder 


Was She a Lollard ? 


93 


how it is I have not had a father like other 
boys. My grandame hath told me I never 
had one. Dost thou not think that God ought 
to have given the poor little lame boy a father ? ” 
he added. 

“It maybe that he did,” murmured Margery, 
for she had not visited this strange household 
without noticing a good deal that would have 
escaped a less keen observer, and she had her 
own theory of Conrad’s being fatherless. 

“ Thou dost think God did give me a father ? ” 
uttered Conrad ; but before this inconvenient 
question could be answered, Dame Ermengarde 
came in to say that a messenger had arrived for 
Margery, bringing a letter from her father. 

“ Hath he come here for me ? ” asked 
Margery. 

“Yes, he is even now at the door. Shall I 
bid him come to thee ? for he seemeth to be in 
great haste.” 

Margery was quite impatient to see the mes- 
senger and hear the news he had brought, for 
she knew that something very unusual must 
have happened for her father to undertake the 
tedious task of writing a letter to her. But it 
was not from the letter, but the messenger, 
that she expected to receive the most intelli- 
gence, for it was her father’s most faithful and 


94 


Conrad. 


trusted apprentice, Gilpin, who had been sent, 
and she knew he would receive more in the 
way of messages to her than could be put in 
the letter. 

“ What hath happened, Gilpin ? Is my mother 
well ? ” asked Margery. 

“Yes, Dame Winchester is in good health, 
and my master, too ; but sore trouble hath 
fallen upon them.” 

“Trouble?” and Margery started from her 
seat exclaiming, “ Surely no one hath — ” she 
was about to say “ betrayed us,” but the young 
man, understanding the direction her fears 
took, hastily interrupted her, for he had been 
warned by her friends that Dame Ursula was 
bitterly opposed to Lollardism. 

“ It is not any thing thou canst have thought 
of,” he said ; “ for Master Maryus had been 
beyond the seas for many years.” 

“ My uncle hath come home at last — the 
brother my mother so often spoke of and so 
longed to see ! ” 

“ Yes, he came back to her at last, but it was 
to die, Mistress Margery,” said Gilpin in a 
gentle tone. 

“ To die ? O Gilpin ! and I heard my mother 
say he had lived an evil, godless life — that he 
broke his mothers heart, and never knew of 


Was She a Lollard ? 


95 

her forgiveness ! Was he a different man when 
he came home ? ” 

“ I trow not, mistress, for I heard the master 
say he loved and gloried in his wickedness ; 
but, nathless, it hath made but little difference 
now, for he was rich, and hath left all his riches 
to the monastery of the black friars.” 

“And did he die thinking his riches would 
atone for his evil life ? ” 

“Ah, what else could he think when the 
friars promised him heaven, and the best place 
there, if he would only atone for the past by 
handing over all his wealth to them ? They 
never left his bedside after they found out that 
he possessed riches ; for before one brother de- 
parted another came, and when the master 
would have interfered and kept them out they 
accused him of wanting to ruin the sick man’s 
soul. He was not satisfied with the leech, and 
would have sent for another from the white 
friars, but when they found that they said 
Master Maryus was dying; and, by my faith, he 
died the next morning — poisoned, my master 
saith,” added Gilpin in a whisper. 

“ And the friars have claimed my uncle’s 
property ! ” said Margery. 

“ They have taken every thing ; he had two 
large chests full of money, and costly stones 


96 


Conrad. 


that he had gathered in his travels. But that is 
not the worst, Mistress Margery, for since he 
hath died his wife and two little children have 
come to my master, doubting not to find him 
there, and Dame Maryus hath herself fallen ill 
now, and is like to die.” 

“ O, Gilpin, the poor little children ! what 
will become of them ? Surely the friars will 
give up what they have taken, now they have 
come.” 

“ Nay, but they will not. They knew before 
Master Maryus died that he had left a wife and 
children beyond the sea, although the master 
had not been told ; but they bade him think 
naught of wife or children now, but to save his 
own soul by devising to them all the moneys and 
riches he had in possession.” 

“’Tis cruel! ’tis unjust! ’tis robbing a wid- 
ow and orphan children ! O, Gilpin, they will 
surely restore half of what they have taken.” 

“ Nay, nay ; not a single silver penny will they 
give up ; and this poor foreign woman and her 
little children are wholly at the charges of thy 
father, and it is because of this — because if 
trouble came, Mistress Margery, he would have 
little to pay the men of law to help him — that 
he bade me come hither and exhort thee to use 
discretion in thy speech at all times.” 


Was She a Lollard ? 


.97 

" Prithee, I thank thee, good Gilpin ; and now 
tell me of thine own matters. Hast been to 
Finsbury fields lately ? ” 

“ Ah, ah, Mistress Margery, I cannot give up 
this wrestling; ’tis expected of all ’prentices that 
they should shoot with the arrow and wrestle 
without sark, and thou knowest the prize for 
the best wrestler — the ram and the ring ; I have 
won it, Mistress Margery,” and the young man 
drew himself up with proud exultation. 

“ I am glad thou hast won it, Gilpin, but thou 
knowest the ram and ring are not the only prize 
worth striving for.” 

“ Nay, nay, the ram and ring are a small mat- 
ter, I trow, as compared with another prize I 
hope to win,” said Gilpin with an animated 
look. 

But Margery did not comprehend what he 
meant. “ I would not have thee understand 
that I think we can earn our right to heaven,” 
she said. “This ‘grace of congruity’ that the 
friars sometimes preach, leading men to trust 
in their own righteousness instead of looking 
to Christ for salvation, is almost as bad as their 
teaching that we can make satisfaction for sin 
by penances, and then commute this by the 
payment of money if we are rich.” 

“ Ah, ’tis an accommodating thing, this religion 


Conrad. 


98 

that the friars preach. Thou must live purely, 
virtuously, and honestly, and thou shalt earn 
heaven, they say to one. Thou must do works 
of charity, visit the sick and infirm, and comfort 
the sorrowful, and thou shalt have a right to 
enter heaven, they tell to another. While for the 
rich, who will fain live in luxury and do what- 
ever they list, they have this doctrine : Do thy 
pleasure and gain many riches, but give to 
abbeys and monasteries richly of all thy gains, 
and for these temporal gifts thou shalt have 
eternal life.” * 

They had drawn nearer to Conrad while Gil- 
pin had been speaking, but the rest of the con- 
versation had been held in a recess, so that it 
should not be overheard ; and that he had for- 
gotten the caution he came to teach, Gilpin was 
altogether unaware until Conrad asked sharply, 

“ Is thy speech concerning the Church what 
this Wiclif teacheth his Lollards?” 

“ I never heard Master John Wiclif teach,” 
answered Gilpin promptly; “that which I af- 
firm I have seen, and know to be the truth.” 

“ Conrad, this is Gilpin, my father’s ’prentice, 
and he hath won the ring and ram for wrestling 
in Finsbury fields,” said Margery, anxious to 
turn the conversation. 

But Conrad was not so interested in the ac- 


Was She a Lollard ? 


99 


count of Gilpin’s success as he might have been 
at another time. What Margery had said to 
him, and what he had just heard from Gilpin, 
had set him thinking — wondering whether his 
grandmother might not be right, after all, in 
thinking that his teacher, Mistress Margery, 
and most of her friends, were Lollards. 


100 


Conrad. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE EARTHQUAKE COUNCIL. 

ILPIN had by no means exaggerated the 



danger that now menaced all the followers 
of Wiclif living near London, for the Arch- 
bishop of Canterbury, Sudbury, having been 
murdered in the Wat Tyler rebellion, one of 
Wiclif’s fiercest opponents had been elevated 
to the vacant see, and a few days before Gilpin’s 
visit he had called together a court of doctors 
and bishops in the monastery of the friar- 
preachers, to lay before them certain doctrines 
repugnant to the Church ; and several people 
known to hold these had likewise been sum- 
moned to appear. Wiclif himself had been 
brought before a similar court under the former 
archbishop, but had escaped the punishment 
intended for him through the influence of his 
patron, the Duke of Lancaster, and the queen 
mother, Joan. But although Dr. Wiclif him- 
self was left in peace by his relentless foe, the 
archbishop was not likely to spare his followers ; 
and Master Winchester was not likely to escape 
notice, especially just now, that he had made 


The Earthquake Council. ioi 

enemies of the black friars by trying to recover 
his brother-in-law’s property from their grasp. 

But, happily for Margery’s peace of mind, she 
knew nothing of what was passing at the mon- 
astery of the gray friars, for news traveled slow r - 
ly in those days, and Gilpin had only given her 
the simple warning to be cautious. 

But, although Margery had not heard of this 
fresh outbreak against Wiclif and the Lollards, 
others in Holywell had, and none were more 
alarmed than Dame Ermengarde, and she re- 
solved to follow her mother’s advice and put 
an end to Margery’s visits, for she more than 
suspected her of holding the dangerous doctrines 
of Wiclif. But Conrad himself must be won 
over to see this matter in the same light ; and 
so, as a bribe toward this, she promised to give 
hirn the book the queen had given her for him. 

“ Thou canst read now, my Conrad — read well 
enough to do without a teacher,” she began one 
day, “ and I will give thee the book my mistress 
hath given me for thee when thou hast time to 
read it.” 

“ Time ! ” repeated Conrad. “ I have time 
enough and to spare ; wilt thou give me the 
book before thou goest back to the palace ? ” 

“ I will give it thee as soon as Mistress Mar- 
gery hath left off visiting thee. Conrad, thy 


102 


Conrad. 


grandame was riglit ; she is one of these Lollards, 

I doubt not.” 

Conrad looked troubled, but he could not con- 
tradict what his mother said, for, remembering 
that conversation they had had, and what he 
had heard from Gilpin since, he felt sure it was 
as his mother feared. But he was not going to 
betray his teacher by mentioning his suspicions 
even to his beloved mother ; but he acquiesced 
in her wish that he should accept the book in- 
stead of Margery’s visits, although it cost him 
a good deal of pain to be entirely separated 
from her. 

Of this pain and sorrow that her pupil suf- 
fered Margery knew nothing, for Dame Ermen- 
garde took care that she did not see him again. 
Very gently and very politely, and with many 
courtly phrases expressing her gratitude, but 
none the less unmistakably, did she tell Margery 
not to come again, as Conrad could not be 
allowed to see her any more. Margery did not 
ask why she had been thus summarily dismissed. 
She thought Conrad had told his mother of 
their conversation. She did not know that the 
child was discreet beyond his years; and that 
he saw as plainly as she did his mother’s weak- 
ness of character. But this action of Dame 
Ermengarde’s convinced her that she was sus- 


The Earthquake Council ’ 103 

pected as a Lollard ; and, added to what Gilpin 
had told her, she resolved to be more cautious. 
She, too, felt the parting with Conrad, for she 
had grown to love the weak, afflicted boy, and 
she felt bitterly disappointed that she had not 
been permitted to give him further instruction 
in that knowledge which had been as new life 
to her. She could do nothing for him now, she 
thought — nothing but pray — and with the reso- 
lution never to forget the little lame boy when 
she prayed for herself, she returned to her 
home. 

The return of the pilgrims from their journey 
to Canterbury caused almost as much sensation 
in the village as their departure. They had 
been expected some days before they came, and 
Dame Ermengarde was very anxious for her 
mother’s arrival, for the Court had returned to 
the palace at Westminster, and she ought to 
have returned to her duties there. 

Dame Ursula was quite as anxious to get 
back as her daughter was to see her, for the 
journey had been very fatiguing, and she looked 
thin and worn as well as travel-stained and weary. 

But, in spite of her weariness, the old woman 
would not enter the house — would not alight 
from the hoise on which she was riding — until 
she was assured that Margery was not there. 


104 


Conrad. 


“ I have met a holy friar, who hath told me 
much concerning these Lollards, and how they 
creep into houses, and stand beside the sick and 
dying, using all their arts to persuade them to 
give to them all the riches of which they are 
possessed, and they will save their souls.” 

If Dame Ursula had not been a foreigner the 
friar would scarcely have dared to tell such a 
barefaced lie ; for this practice with which he 
charged the Lollards was precisely what his 
own order was guilty of, and it was Wiclif’s 
exposure of this, and of their hypocrisy and 
evil lives, that had made them his bitter ene- 
mies. 

“ I have also heard other news. As I tarried 
at the Tabord, on my way home, one told me 
of the earthquake that hath shaken London of 
late. The monastery where the archbishop 
held his court that day to consider these doc- 
trines of Wiclif was shaken to its very foun- 
dations, and some of even the learned doctors 
were so far bewitched as to think that God would 
be displeased at the business they were doing. 
But the archbishop reproved such fears. ‘ If 
the earthquake means any thing,’ he said, ‘ it 
portends the downfall of heresy. For, as nox- 
ious vapors are confined in the bowels of the 
earth, and are expelled by these violent con- 


The Earthquake Council. 105 

cussions, so through our strenuous endeavors 
the kingdom must be purified from the pesti- 
lential opinions of reprobate men/ But this is 
not to be done without great commotion. And 
there will be commotion, I trow, for of the con- 
clusions these learned doctors met to consider 
ten are pronounced to be heretical, and four- 
teen erroneous and repugnant to the Church. 
This doctrine of the heretic Wiclif, that the 
bread and wine in the mass are not changed 
into the body and blood of the Lord Christ, 
but are still simple bread and wine after the 
priest hath blessed them, no man dare teach 
now, for the truth of this hath been affirmed by 
a miracle.” 

Dame Ermengarde did not ask what this 
miracle was, for, in truth, she was utterly weary 
of this word “ heresy,” and her soul sickened as 
she listened to her mother’s tiresome recital, for 
it brought back to her bitter memories of the; 
past. 

Conrad’s mother might escape listening to the 
painful news that had been collected on the 
journey to and from Canterbury, but for him 
there was no escape. He had to listen to 
his grandame’s account of what Archbishop 
Courtney was doing or had done for the re- 
pression of heresy. 


io 6 Conrad. 

“ He is a man zealous for holy Church, and 
hath obtained the king’s patent to arrest and 
imprison all who shall publicly or privately 
teach or maintain these heresies of Wiclif. He 
hath also obtained another patent directed to 
the chancellor and proctors at Oxford, appoint- 
ing them inquisitors-general, and ordering them 
to banish from the university and town all who 
hold the heresies of Wiclif, and all who shall 
even dare to receive into their houses Wiclif 
himself or any of his friends. The heretic must 
leave Oxford now,” added Dame Ursula exult- 
ingly ; “and when he can no longer corrupt 
men’s minds by teaching them his evil heresies 
they will soon be forgotten, and the Church will 
be at peace once more.” 

“ But, grandame, hast thou forgotten what 
the friar told us one day, that there were hun- 
dreds of poor scholars traveling about the coun- 
try, teaching the doctrines of Wiclif to all they 
met ? ” 

“But these, too, will be imprisoned. I tell 
thee, Conrad, England is at last waking up to 
the danger of this heresy, and will cast it from 
her.” 

But Conrad, who was feeling very dull just 
now, and longed for a visit from Margery again, 
was somewhat perverse : “ This Master Wiclif 


The Earthquake Council. 107 

is the orderly champion of English liberty, 
grandame,” he said. 

“ What hath the Church to do with liberty ? ” 
retorted the old lady ; “ she hath said what men 
shall believe, and no man dare think for himself 
in matters that concern the Church other than 
she shall direct, even though he be the profess- 
or of divinity chosen by the University of Ox- 
ford, and hath for his patrons queens and dukes. 
This Wiclif must wend his way from Oxford, I 
trow, and no man dare receive him into his 
house — so that he will die, as it is meet he 
should, begging for food and shelter that none 
will give him.” 

Dame Ursula doubtless hoped that her pre- 
diction concerning Dr. Wiclif would speedily 
be fulfilled ; but Conrad had begun to tire of her 
endless talk about heresy and heretics, and 
wished he had never heard the word, since it 
had separated him from Margery. Not that he 
needed much assistance from her now in the 
way of teaching, for he had learned so rapidly, 
and had applied himself so strenuously to over- 
come every difficulty, that he could master the 
contents of the book his mother had given him 
before she took her departure. Dame Ursula 
could not read herself, and little guessed that 
the book she so often placed near Conrad’s pil- 


108 Conrad. 

low was the hated Wiclif’s Testament in En- 
glish. Dame Ermengarde knew what the book 
was, but as the queen read it so much she rea- 
soned that it could not be other than good for 
Conrad to read ; but she took care not to let her 
mother know what it was. The old lady began 
to watch for some signs of amendment in her 
grandson as soon as she returned from Canter- 
bury ; but, in spite of the constant use of water 
from the holy well, and the prayers and gifts 
she had offered at the shrine of St. Thomas, he 
did not improve. On the contrary, as the sum- 
mer advanced he seemed to grow more weak 
and helpless, and became so irritable and pee- 
vish that Dame Ursula gladly welcomed any 
visitor who would spend an hour with him. 

The blacksmith came sometimes, when he 
could leave his stithy for a few hours ; but his 
friend Trueman often came to talk to the little 
lame boy, and each time he came he felt his 
heart drawn more closely toward him. No one 
was so patient in listening to his complaints or 
trying to amuse him as the cross-grained old 
mason. Indeed, the man’s whole nature seemed 
to change when he was with the boy, and he 
entered into all his schemes and plans for the 
future with as much sympathy as though he 
were a boy himself. 


The Earthquake Council. 109 

" Master Trueman, I will be a learned man — 
a learned doctor — so that men shall call me the 
‘ seraphic doctor/ and thou must help me,” said 
Conrad one day when his friend came in. 

“ Ah, that will I right heartily my little 
knave* said Trueman, rubbing his hands ; “ I 
have heard that if Englishmen were only learned 
they would be free — free to own the land with- 
out paying body service, and — ” 

“ And free of the Church, too, I have heard,” 
laughed Conrad, for since the Church had failed 
to give him the health and strength he so 
longed for he had less fear of what he said 
concerning it. 

“Ah, I know little of the Church beyond 
paying all dues and relieving the begging fri- 
ars when they ask an alms ; though ’tis a sore 
tax on a poor man to pay Church dues and 
give of his substance continually to these holy 
beggars, for the land swarms with them, I 
trow.” 

“ My grandame hath given alms to two to- 
day and three yesterday. One of them to-day 
was a gray friar, whose monastery was far away 
in the west of England, and he sat awhile to 
rest, and told me of a monk of his order, one 
Roger Bacon, who died about ninety years 
ago. He was a most learned man, he says, and 


I IO 


Conrad. 


could tell much concerning the stars and a 
science called mathematics ; but he was never 
called a ‘ seraphic doctor/ I trow, for he of- 
fended the Church because of his great learning, 
and they imprisoned him as they imprison the 
Lollards now. Doth the Church hate learning 
because it tendeth to liberty, think you, Master 
Trueman ? ” 

But the mason could only shake his head. 
He was not going to speak against the Church 
and imperil his good name — perhaps lose his 
dearly loved liberty — for in these uncertain times 
none knew how much power the Church really 
did possess in disposing of men’s bodies as well 
as their souls. 

But Conrad was weighed by no such fear, 
and he said so. “ I would be a Lollard and 
pray to God himself, as Mistress Margery doth, 
if I were sure I should get well and run about 
like other boys,” he said. 

“Be cautious, little knave, what thou dost 
say about that, for ’tis growing more dangerous 
every day to be a Lollard, I trow.” 

“ Well, I will not tell my grandame, for it 
would trouble her sorely. But now about this 
learning ; thou must ask some of thy friends to 
lend thee some books for me to read, for I 
mean to be a ‘ seraphic doctor/ well skilled in 


The Earthquake Council. hi 

the use of words, that I may confuse and con- 
found all who think differently from me.” 

Trueman smiled at the eagerness with which 
the boy spoke : “ Dost thou think I see as many 
books as stones, that thou askest me to get 
thee books. Nay, nay, poor old Ned Trueman 
hath not beheld half a dozen books in his life ; 
but if thou wilt have this learning thine heart 
is set upon, ask Master Geoffrey Chaucer, 
and he will be able to help thee, 1 doubt not. 
But I — ” and the old man stopped to laugh at 
the absurdity of the idea. 

But, strange and unlikely as it seemed to him 
then, the next time he came to see Conrad he 
brought a book with him. He did not tell the 
boy he had given a day’s work for the loan of 
the book, neither had he inquired what the book 
was. Conrad wanted books to learn the use of 
words — to become a scholar, as the word was 
understood then — and any book would be useful, 
he argued ; and so he joyfully brought the 
coveted storehouse of words — for it was words 
rather than knowledge that were coveted in 
those days. 

The philosophy of Aristotle was most care- 
fully studied, and this, with the prevailing igno- 
rance of the times of which we write, helped to 
confuse men’s minds, but added very little to 


1 12 


Conrad. 


the lightening of the general darkness. Polem- 
ical weapons were furnished to disputants, but 
no useful truths were made known. Endless 
questions were started, but as it was a mark 
of skill and knowledge to ask these, with- 
out attempting to furnish an answer or seek 
one, and as no one ever thought of answering 
questions, but only asking them, very little use- 
ful knowledge was gained, or even sought ; and 
the more skilled in this art of asking questions 
and disputing gained the title of “ seraphic.” 
And to be a “ seraphic doctor ” was now Con- 
rad’s highest ambition. 


The Disabled Traveler. 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE DISABLED TRAVELER. 

ON RAD seized the book eagerly, and, 



V-/ looking at the title, he exclaimed, “ Thou 
wilt have me to dispute with the Lollards, I 
trow ! ” 

“ Nay, nay ! leave the Lollards alone,” said 
the old man. “ This book hath naught to do 
with them, I wist.” 

“ Naught to do with them ? Why, ’tis writ by 
Master Wiclif!” and Conrad read from the 
title, “Against Able Beggary, Against Idle 
Beggary, and On the Poverty of Christ.” 

“ Now, by my faith, if I had known that the 
book was of that sort I would not have brought 
it,” uttered Trueman in a tone of perplexity ; “ I 
thought, being a book, it must be good, and 
now — ” 

“ Nay, nay, I am not going to be a Lollard, 
Master Trueman; I mean to be a ‘seraphic 
doctor.’ Shall I read to thee something from 
this book ? ’Tis about the monks and friars, I 
trow.” 

Master Trueman thought he might as well 


Conrad. 


i 14 

hear what kind of learning the book contained, 
and if it threatened to be too dangerous he 
would take it back again. But Conrad would 
not hear of this ; he would not part with the 
book, but promised that his grandmother 
should not know its contents ; and with this 
promise the old man was obliged to be content ; 
but he resolved to come again soon and fetch 
the dangerous treasure, for he would know no 
peace while Conrad had it, for fear it should 
bring trouble upon them all. 

But the child had kept his word, and no one 
knew he had the book but his grandmother, and 
she knew nothing of its contents. She felt so 
bitterly disappointed that all her efforts had 
failed to restore him some degree of strength, 
that she was glad of any thing that would amuse 
him now, and make the time pass less wearily ; 
and it was for this reason she welcomed every 
visitor who would come to pass an hour with 
the boy. Even Master Filpot, the blacksmith, 
was welcomed less sourly, although she felt sure 
he was one of the detested Lollards. 

Master Geoffrey Chaucer could not spare time 
to come to Holywell very often, but whenever 
he did journey thither he never failed to pay a 
visit to Conrad, and tell him something of his 
travels in other countries ; and he often lent him 


The Disabled Traveler. 1 1 5 

a book to read. Such books as those of Master 
Chaucer’s, as well as that brought by Trueman, 
were scarcely likely to interest an ordinary child, 
but the peculiar circumstances in which Conrad 
was placed made him welcome any thing that 
could occupy his mind, and draw it from the 
painful subject of his affliction. 

That he was strangely thoughtful for his 
years was only natural, for, being cut off from all 
the usual active amusement of boys of his age, 
his mind was thrown back upon itself, and he 
not only read every book he could obtain, but 
thought far more of what he read than did many 
older people. 

Weeks and months rolled on, and Conrad’s 
mind was being stored with all sorts of different 
kinds of knowledge, mostly of a controversial 
character ; for every one who wrote seemed bent 
upon pulling down some theory or contradicting 
some received opinion, but no one ever thought 
it necessary to repair or rebuild as well as pull 
down, so that Conrad, like every body else, began 
to look out for things to find fault with. That 
the Church, with all her boasted power of heal- 
ing and working miracles, had failed to cure him, 
was a never-failing source of complaint ; while 
to Dame Ursula it was a grief that threatened 
to undermine her health entirely. 


Conrad. 


116 

In the spring of the year 1384 it was pro- 
posed to Dame Ermengarde that Conrad should 
try a change of air, for he had been nearly two 
years at Holywell and the water had done him 
no good. Of course, any thing that was likely 
to be of service to the boy was eagerly sought 
by his mother, and no less eagerly by his grand- 
mother ; and so preparations were at once made 
for their removal to a small village in Leicester- 
shire, close to Lutterworth, where an old retain- 
er of the Duke of Lancaster had settled, who 
agreed to receive Dame Ursula and her grand- 
son into his house. 

The excitement of taking such a journey, and 
seeing so many strange people and places, 
seemed to have a most beneficial effect upon 
the boy ; and although he could not walk, he was 
so much stronger that soon after his removal to 
Leicestershire he was able to go to Church for 
almost the first time in his life. 

Dame Ursula was delighted that Conrad 
should wish to go to Church, and eagerly pro- 
posed that he should go to mass while he was 
able ; and to this Conrad agreed, for he would be 
sure of heaven then, and it would please his 
grandmother, too. Indeed, Dame Ursula was so 
delighted at what she chose to consider Conrad’s 
escape from Lollardism, and his devotion to the 


The Disabled Traveler . 1 1 7 

Church, that she could not help openly exult- 
ing over it. But she soon found that Conrad 
was not likely to receive all that the Church 
taught and practiced as unquestioningly as she 
did. 

“ Grandame, why doth the priest only take 
the wine in the mass ? ” he asked as soon as he 
returned home ; “ at Holywell the people as 
well as the holy father took wine as well as the 
bread.” 

“ But hast thou not heard, my Conrad, that 
the wine taken by us common people remains 
simply wine, but that which the priest taketh 
is changed into the blood of Christ ? ” 

“ Then why cannot we partake of this wine 
that is changed, instead of taking only the 
bread ?” 

“ Because it is not needful, for the bread is 
changed into the flesh and blood of Jesus Christ. 
Didst thou not hear of the kni'ght who almost 
believed in this heresy of the Lollards, that the 
bread is not so changed until a miracle was 
performed, and after the priest had blessed the 
bread he saw it to be red, raw flesh, dripping 
with blood. This miracle was performed just 
after the Earthquake Council was held in Lon- 
don, where Wiclif’s doctrine was condemned.” 

But Conrad was not quite satisfied. " I heard 
8 


1 1 8 


Conrad. 


my mother say that the mass should be taken 
in both kinds,” he objected. 

“Thy mother hath some strange notions, 
which it were well for thee to forget. Dost 
thou not see for thyself, Conrad, that if the wine 
were turned into the blood of Christ there 
would be sore peril of its profanation, for it 
might be spilled in delivering the cup to the 
hands of so many ? ” 

Conrad was silenced, but not satisfied, and he 
resolved to talk to his host about this. He 
also had a lurking desire to go with the old 
man to Lutterworth Church to hear Master 
Wiclif preach sometimes, for he had never heard 
any thing in the way of preaching but a re- 
cital of the legend of some saint gabbled over 
by an ignorant monk and friar ; for, although a 
canon had been enacted about a hundred years 
before making it incumbent on a parish priest 
to explain the fundamental articles of religion 
once a quarter, this was often neglected through 
the ignorance of those to whom it was in- 
trusted. 

At Lutterworth, however, things were quite 
different, for Dr. Wiclif was as earnest and dil- 
igent as a parish priest as he had been when the 
Oxford professor of divinity, and he was scarce- 
ly less useful either, for the “poor scholars,” 


The Disabled Traveler. 1 19 

who had often heard him preach and lecture 
there, followed him to Lutterworth, often bring- 
ing with them noble patrons to whom they had 
hired themselves as teachers. 

One of these poor scholars came to Master 
Martin’s cottage one day, and begged a night’s 
lodging for himself and his master, Sir John 
Oldcastle. They were on their way to Lutter- 
worth, but the young nobleman had met with 
an accident ; his horse, having stumbled in the 
rutty, ill-kept road, had thrown Sir John into a 
ditch, and sprained his foot. 

Master Martin scarcely liked to turn away 
any travelers under such circumstances, but he 
had not a room to spare now, and this he ex- 
plained, but added, “ I will ask the old lady if 
she will sleep with my dame to-night, and thou 
couldst have her bed. There is a little lame 
knave with her, but he will count for naught, as 
he sleepeth on the couch he lies on by day.” 

“ If the woman will but do this kindly deed 
for my master he will reward ye both,” said the 
man as Martin turned into the house to speak 
to Dame Ursula. 

The thought of this unknown traveler being 
lamed, perhaps, by his fall moved the old lady 
at once, and she readily consented to give up 
her bed if Conrad would not mind being left 


20 


Conrad. 


with the strangers ; and the boy, so far from dis- 
liking the idea of it, was delighted, more es- 
pecially when he heard that one of them was a 
poor scholar, who had recently come from Ox- 
ford. 

He had begun to perceive lately that if he 
was ever to become the great scholar he wished 
to be, he, too, must go to the university, and he 
thought this man might tell him something of 
what was done there, and how the students 
learned their great wisdom. 

Sir John Oldcastle had injured his foot rather 
severely, it seemed, for he could not walk to the 
cottage, and had to be laid on Dame Ursula’s 
bed at once ; and when the long piked shoes 
which he wore were taken off, the injured foot 
was found to be very much swollen and in- 
flamed. 

The shoes, with their yard length of toes, that 
had been loosely drawn up to the knees with 
silver chains, had been the chief cause of the 
disaster, and Sir John declared he would never 
try to be a fashionable young man again. In 
truth his gay attire looked In a sorry plight now, 
for it was quite unfit to travel in ; but the lad — 
for he was little more than that — had been so 
pleased with the effect of having one sleeve 
blue and the other green, one cloth stocking 


The Disabled Traveler. 12 1 

red and the other white, to say nothing of the 
gold and silver tissue embroidered round doub- 
let and tunic, that he could not be persuaded to 
lay aside his gay court dress when he left Lon- 
don, and dress in a more sober fashion. 

The finery was sadly torn and mud-stained 
now, and Sir John was ready to curse his folly 
and vanity alike ; but he restrained his im- 
patience, for he would not grieve his com- 
panion. 

Conrad lay quietly, looking and listening to 
all that . passed, while the injured foot was 
bathed and bandaged ; and after they had re- 
tired to rest and forgot all about Conrad, he 
still lay wide-awake, breathlessly listening to 
every word ; for Sir John could not sleep 
for the pain his foot caused him, and so he 
and his companion lay talking until near day 
dawn. 

It seemed that Sir John’s character by no 
means accorded with his foppish dress, for Con- 
rad soon discovered that it was not the court 
and the gay doings of King Richard that had 
occupied the young men’s attention while in 
London, for they had been making inquiries 
about a Lollard who had been condemned to 
imprisonment for life — one John Ashton. They 
had not seen him, it seemed, for he had died 


122 


Conrad. 


the year before from the closeness of his con- 
finement. 

But in spite of this warning, which Conrad 
thought would be enough to deter any mail 
from embracing Lollardism, it seemed that not 
only the poor scholar, but Sir John Oldcastle 
also had a strong leaning in that direction, 
and had journeyed hither to hear Master Wic- 
lif himself. 

But it was not of Wiclif alone that they 
talked. The scholar while at Oxford had visited 
the cell of Roger Bacon, and knew an old monk 
who had been his intimate friend. 

“ This Bacon had many curious things which 
his friend showed me. There were glasses 
to help men to see more clearly whose eye- 
sight was not good, and others by which 
the most distant stars were brought within 
sight—” 

“ Nay, nay ; but the man must have had deal- 
ings with Sathanas. ’Tis of the evil one that 
these inventions come,” said Sir John. 

“ So said the Church, as it saith of all learning 
and useful knowledge, and the poor monk was 
soon carried from his cell to a gloomy dungeon. 
But they brought him back before he died. 
His friend doth greatly reverence him, and 
saith he will yet be called the father of English 


The Disabled Traveler. 


123 


philosophy. This man also knew John Duns 
Scotus, who was the professor of divinity at 
Oxford, but saw not so clearly the evils of the 
times and the Church as doth our godly Master 
Wiclif. The old monk was a friend, too, of 
William Occam, the “invincible doctor,” who 
was one of the first to ~how men the errors of 
the Church, and how greatly it needed to be 
reformed. He and Thomas Bradwardine, some- 
time Archbishop of Canterbury, and known as 
the “ profound doctor,” would sit in old Roger 
Bacon’s cell, and examine his instruments, and 
listen to what his friend told concerning him, 
and read his books, until Thomas Bradwardine 
grew to love the mathematics and philosophy 
of Bacon as much as he did the divinity lectures 
of his teacher, Duns Scotus. 

“ But none of these are equal to our Dr. 
Wiclif, thou, sayest.” 

“ Nay, no man hath ever seen so clearly as 
Master John Wiclif the evils and corruptions 
of the whole Roman Church, and how greatly 
it needs to be reformed.” 

“But who is to reform it?” asked Sir John 
Oldcastle. “ The Church and the world, as it 
seemeth to me, need a reformation, and men 
have been crying and struggling for it for years ; 
but will it ever come ? ” 


124 


Conrad. 


“Yea, in God’s time it will,” answered the 
poor scholar. 

“ Thou sayest we ought ever to hope in God, 
and believe that his long tarrying is but his 
patience and long-suffering ; but it seemeth to 
me that evil is the stronger in our day, and will 
yet get the upper hand. Thou knowest I more 
than half sympathized with that foolish rebellion 
headed by the blacksmith, Wat Tvler ; for was 
not that a noble struggle for freedom — the 
world striving to cast off the chains that 
had been riveted upon it by the kings and 
barons and men of power ? And now thy Wic- 
lif would fain free men from the slavery that 
the Church hath imposed upon all ; but he is 
silenced — sent from Oxford in disgrace — and the 
Church is rejoicing in her power to persecute 
and crush all who dare to preach or teach, or even 
believe, the doctrines he taught. With such 
things as these before us, how are we to hope 
that a reformation will ever come — that men’s 
wrongs will be redressed, and freedom to wor- 
ship God according as the heart teacheth ever 
granted to men ? ” 

“ Nay, truly, as thou sayest, all things look 
dark and menacing for the future ; but the 
world hath been groaning and crying for a 
reformation for many years, and it will still cry, 


The Disabled Traveler. 


125 


and God will hear the voice of his servants 
praying, ‘Lord, how long?’ and the reforma- 
tion will come ; and we must hope in the Lord 
until this glorious day shall dawn upon the 
earth.” 


126 


Conrad. 


CHAPTER X. 


NEW FRIENDS 


ONR AD lay as wide-awake as Sir John Old- 



castle himself, and so he heard every word 
that was spoken by the two friends, and they gave 
him new thoughts — new ideas upon many sub- 
jects, especially this much-reviled Lollardism. 
If the world and the Church wanted setting to 
rights, as his grandmother said the house did 
sometimes, why, it had better be done ; and if 
Dr. Wiclif had found out the way to do one part, 
it seemed a pity that he could not be left alone, 
or helped to do the work he wanted to do. One 
thing he was quite resolved about — he would go 
to Lutterworth Church and hear Dr. Wiclif, if 
old Martin would take him, in spite of alL his 
grandmother might say against it. He stood in 
far less awe of the old lady than did his mother ; 
indeed, it seemed that in some particulars Dame 
Ursula and the boy were strangely alike, and it 
was doubtful which would gain the victory if 
their wills came in direct collision. 

The travelers were anxious to proceed on their 
journey with as little delay as possible ; but the 


New Friends . 


127 


young nobleman’s foot was still so much swollen 
that their host declared it was impossible for 
him to move at present. He chafed and fumed 
a good deal when he heard this, and declared he 
must go on as far as the town, and would have sent 
his friend forward to engage rooms for them at 
some hostelry, but that the poor scholar per- 
suaded him to remain where he was. 

Conrad was delighted at the thought of shar- 
ing his room with such company, and Sir John 
soon became reconciled to his enforced confine- 
ment when he discovered what a quaint, origi- 
nal companion he was likely to have in the little 
lame boy; for Conrad’s miscellaneous reading 
had helped him to understand more clearly the 
full meaning of that first conversation that he 
had overheard, while that had given him a 
clearer insight into the drift of much that he 
had failed to understand in the books. 

“ So thou wouldst be a reformer, my little 
knave!” said Sir John Oldcastle after one of 
their conversations. 

“ Nay, I know not that, for to me it seemeth 
the world will not be set to rights, though men 
be willing to use their besoms.” 

Sir John laughed at the homely simile. “ Ah ! 
truly, one or two have tried their besoms, but 
only, as it seems to me, to raise a cloud of 


128 Conrad. 

dust instead of cleansing away the filth and 
foulnesses.” 

“ Will preaching and teaching ever do more 
than raise a dust, and fill men’s nostrils with a 
foul scent ? ” said Conrad, recalling to mind his 
grandmother’s last house cleaning, when the 
rushes, dirt, and putrid bones and scraps, the 
accumulation of the previous six months, had 
been swept out of the room, and the disagree- 
able business had well-nigh made him sick. 

“ Thou dost think men will grow disgusted 
with the teaching of Dr. Wiclif ? ” said the 
nobleman. 

“ Lollardism doth stink in men’s nostrils 
now,” said Conrad. “ To be a Lollard is to 
forfeit the favor of prelates and nobles, and all 
whose favor is worth having.” 

“ But if the world is to be reformed some 
must be willing to offend prelates and no- 
bles, for ’tis through them, I trow, it is in such 
bad case.” 

“ Nay, nay ; but ’tis the work of the prelates 
to reform the Church ! ’’ said Conrad. 

’ “ And dost thou think they will do it ? ” ex- 

claimed the young nobleman. “ I tell thee their 
hearts are set on their green and scarlet gowns, 
their gold embroidered copes, and such finery, 
as much as any young damsel of Queen Anne’s 


New Friends . 


129 


Court is upon the height of her horned head- 
dress or the width of her gored skirt. Tis a 
Bohemian fashion, I trow, this new-fangled head- 
gear.” 

“ Yes ; I came from Bohemia,” said Conrad. 

“ I knew thou wert not an English boy. Didst 
thou ever hear of one Master Faulfisch in thine 
own land ? ” asked the poor scholar. 

But before Conrad could reply in the negative 
his grandmother came into the room and took up 
the question. 

“ Faulfisch ! ” she repeated. “ They are our 
kinsmen. What dost thou know concerning 
them ? ” 

“ I knew one Master Jerome Faulfisch at 
Oxford, who came from Bohemia,” said the 
scholar ; but he wisely kept back another item 
of news concerning him — that he had come to 
Lutterworth to see this Bohemian, and to con- 
sult with him as to the best method of intro- 
ducing more of Dr. Wiclif s doctrines into Bo- 
hemia. They were to talk the matter over 
with Dr. Wiclif himself, for Faulfisch, having 
studied at Oxford unSer him, and read his 
works, was very anxious that his countrymen 
should receive the light of divine truth from 
Wiclif, and participate in the blessing God was 
giving to England. 


130 


Conrad. 


“So Jerome Faulfisch hath come to En- 
gland ? ” repeated Dame Ursula, musingly. 

“ Thou wouldst be glad to see thy kinsman, I 
trow? ” said Sir John Oldcastle. 

“ Nay, nay ; I have no desire to see him. 
Thou wilt not say thou hast seen me,” she 
added, a little anxiously. 

“ But, grandame,” said Conrad, “ I would fain 
see this Bohemian scholar. I prithee let him 
come hither, for I have often longed to see some 
one who came from Bohemia since ourselves.” 

But a stern, hard look came into Dame Ur- 
sula’s face, and she answered angrily, “ Nay, the 
man shall not enter this house ;” and then, rec- 
ollecting herself, she added, “ He could tell us 
naught of our former gossips, Conrad, for he 
left Prague long before we came to England.” 

Conrad did not like to say any thing more 
about the matter before these strangers, but he 
was none the less desirous of seeing Master 
Faulfisch, and he resolved to ask at what hos- 
telry he was staying before the travelers should 
take their departure, and, having ascertained 
this, he would ask old Martin to take him there 
when they went into town. Conrad found that 
the strangers were willing to give him all the 
information he desired, and Sir John proposed 
that he should go with them to Lutterworth. 


New Friends . 


131 

“ Hast thou never tried to walk on crutches ?” 
asked Sir John, as he tried himself to hobble 
across the room by the aid of two sticks. 

“Nay, I cannot sit up long but the weakness 
overpowers me,” said Conrad, with something 
of a sigh as he watched Sir John’s successful 
efforts to move about. The young nobleman 
himself was delighted at the progress he made 
with the help of the sticks. “ If I could get 
something to rest upon under my arms I could 
go to Lutterworth to-day ; ” and then he sud- 
denly added, “ I will ride thither, and get some 
crutches made, and when I have done with 
them I will send a litter to fetch thee, and thou 
shalt try and walk with them, and see thy kins- 
man, Faulfisch, and Dr. Wiclif, too.” 

Conrad would fain have jumped for joy at 
the prospect of going to Lutterworth, but the 
distant pleasure was somewhat dimmed by the 
present pain of losing Sir John Oldcastle and 
the poor scholar. They had been a week at 
the cottage now. A week of almost uninter- 
rupted pleasure it had been to Conrad, for Sir 
John, having resigned the hope of going on to 
Lutterworth at once, resolved to make the best 
of his imprisonment, and, like every body else 
who came in contact with the little invalid, he was 
so charmed and interested by him that he gave 


132 


Conrad. 


himself up to his amusement at once, and the 
days had slipped by almost as quickly to one 
as to the other. 

But for the hope of seeing his friends again 
so soon Conrad would almost have pined and 
fretted for them after they had gone. Dame 
Ursula, having overheard several fragments of 
conversations, guessed that they were tainted 
with Lollardism in spite of the gay attire in 
which Sir John Oldcastle had first made his 
appearance, and which the old lady had taken 
as a sure indication that he might certainly be 
trusted as being free from all suspicion of her- 
esy ; but now, finding that they were going to 
Lutterworth to see Dr. Wiclif, she set about 
the work of trying to remove any impression 
they might have made upon Conrad. 

“ But, grandame, if this so-called heresy is 
what the Church needs to set it right again — 
for it seemeth that it hath gone wrong of late — 
then — ” 

But Dame Ursula interrupted him with a cry 
of horror. “ The Church wrong ! ” she uttered, 
and then she wrung her hands, and burst into 
such a cry of anguish that Conrad was alarmed, 
and called old Martin into the room. 

“ What aileth thee, dame ? what is it, my 
little knave ? ” asked the old man. 


Neiv Friends. 


133 


But Conrad hardly knew what to say. “I — 
I am afraid I said something that hurt gran- 
dame,” he answered hesitatingly. 

Dame Ursula took no notice of old Martin, 
but continued to rock herself to and fro, groan- 
ing, “O my boy! my boy! he is lost! lost! 
lost!” 

“ Nay, good dame, thy son may come home 
to thee again,” said Martin soothingly, for he 
could not think that any thing Conrad had said 
could cause this violent outburst ; and so he 
went on talking soothingly to her until at 
length, finding she paid little heed to what he 
said in a soothing tone, he spoke more sharply. 
“ ’Tis an evil thing to turn a deaf ear to the 
counsel of a friend, and thou art not the only 
one who hath lost a son. ’Tis a sore grief, I 
know, dame, for my own brother is in the same 
case, and he hath buried himself in London ever 
since. He was a right clever mason, was my 
brother, Ned Trueman, and — ” 

“Trueman!” interrupted Conrad, “I know 
a Master Trueman who is also a mason ; but I 
knew not that thy name was Trueman,” he 
added. 

“All men called me Martin when I entered 
the service of the great duke, and my brother 
was so sorely offended at my rendering body 
9 


134 


Conrad. 


service to any man that he hath not spoken to 
me since, for he never forgiveth an offense.” 

“ Never forgiveth ! ” repeated Conrad. 

“ Nay, he would not forgive his own son, 
though he was his only one, and he loved him 
dearly, and ’twas this that sent the knave away. 
He went beyond the seas, and my brother went 
to London to forget his sorrow if he could ; but 
I doubt not that he hath often grieved since, and 
will grieve even to the last. So think not, dame, 
that thou art the only one who hath lost a son.” 

Dame Ursula had grown more calm while 
old Martin was speaking — calm enough to re- 
flect that it would be better to let old Martin 
think he was right in his conclusion as to the 
cause of her trouble than compromise Conrad 
by telling her fears concerning him. If she had 
only known that the old man would have laughed 
at her gross exaggeration of the danger she 
might have told him the true state of the case, 
for she would have been thankful to any one 
who would have told her she had little to fear. 
As it was, she let old Martin depart with the 
belief that she was grieving for the loss of a 
son, while she recommenced her lectures to 
Conrad on the enormity of his sin in doubting 
the wisdom, goodness, and righteousness of the 
Church in any particular. 


New Friends. 


135 


The effect of his grandmothers talk this time 
was to make Conrad think she knew nothing of 
the world’s cry for the reformation that Sir 
John Oldcastle had talked so much about, and 
though he tried to soothe her with promises 
that he would never do any thing against the 
Church — promises she felt inclined to laugh at — 
he would not promise the entire obedience to 
her she had always extorted from him before. 

“ Grandame, I shall be a man some day. I 
am growing a man every day it seemeth to me, 
and as I cannot work, like other men, I must 
think. I have strange thoughts sometimes, gran- 
dame, and I must know more of what this Sir 
John hath told me about the groaning of the 
world for a reformation. I must go to Lutter- 
worth when he sendeth for me, grandame, for 
it may be I shall be able to walk when — ” 

“ Hush, l^ush, Conrad ; these Lollards have 
bewitched thee. Dost thou think this heretic, 
Wiclif, can give strength to thy legs when St. 
Thomas himself hath failed ? ” 

“ Nay, nay, grandame ; I said not that Dr. 
Wiclif would do aught for me but let me hear 
his voice when he preacheth to the people in 
Lutterworth Church.” 

“Thou shalt not go to Lutterworth,” said 
Dame Ursula angrily. 


Conrad. 


136 

“ Nay, nay, grandame, say not so, for I would 
not disobey thee an I could help it ; but I am 
growing to be a man, and have not child’s 
thoughts now, and I must go to Lutterworth 
when Sir John Oldcastle doth send for me;” 
and Dame Ursula, looking at the pale, thin face, 
saw that it would be useless to try to rule and 
reign over this boy as she had ruled and tyran- 
nized over his mother. 

“ Thou mayest go to Lutterworth once — go 
and see this heretic, Wiclif — and I will pray the 
saints that thou art not blinded by the evil that 
is in him, for he hath blinded many souls, and 
ruined them forever.” 

The consent was given reluctantly enough 
Conrad could see ; but he was glad that he had 
obtained her consent so far, and he resolved 
that he would not stay in Lutterworth more 
than a few days, however much his new friends 
might press him to do so. No, no; he would 
not leave his grandmother long. He was 
beginning to understand her now, and compre- 
hend something of the absorbing love she had 
for him, and the intense fear that was ever on 
the alert against any thing like heresy. He 
knew, too — though how he knew it he could not 
tell — that there was some mystery connected 
with this fear — some secret — something that 


New Friends. 


137 


had happened in the past that seemed ever 
present to his grandmother’s mind, making her 
restless and irritable, unless she had her rosary 
in her hand reciting the prayer appointed for 
each bead, or some such act of devotion. 

He had tried again and again to penetrate 
the mystery in which the past seemed to be 
shrouded. He had asked questions about their 
life in Bohemia — why his mother always looked 
so careworn and anxious, when and where his 
father had died, what he was like, and whether 
he had loved his little lame boy. But to all his 
questions Dame Ursula only returned evasive, 
unsatisfactory answers — answers that silenced 
Conrad for the time, but never satisfied him. 
Now he resolved to question another. He would 
see this Master Faulfisch, whom his grandmother 
said was a kinsman, when he went to Lutter- 
worth, and he would question him about his fa- 
ther and the mystery that seemed to infold his 
family. 


138 


Conrad. 


CHAPTER XI. 

JEROME OF PRAGUE. 

C ONRAD had not to wait long for his sum- 
mons to Lutterworth. A week after his 
departure Sir John Oldcastle sent a litter, 
in which the lame boy could be carried to the 
hostelry where he was staying, and where he 
was most anxious to see Conrad make trial of 
the crutches he had now thrown aside. 

Conrad himself was no less anxious than his 
friend to make this trial, but he did not say 
much to his grandmother about it for fear an- 
other disappointment should await them. He 
also wished to avoid all discussion about this 
visit to Lutterworth, and another topic was now 
the subject of talk on all sides, so that Wiclif 
and his friends might hope to be forgotten and 
left alone for a time. 

For years there had now been two rival popes 
— one reigning and issuing his laws from Rome, - 
the other from Avignon ; and these two infalli- 
ble rivals, not content with heaping bans, curses, 
and anathemas upon each other, had now come 
to open war. 


Jerome of Prague. 139 

The pontiff of Rome had promulgated a cru- 
sade against the pontiff of Avignon, and En- 
gland was to be foremost in the strife. The 
Bishop of Norwich was to be at the head of the 
English host, and the same indulgences were to 
be granted as to the crusaders in the Holy Land. 

Every town and every village was beginning 
to be in a ferment of fear, expectancy, and rest- 
less excitement, for the Archbishop of Canter- 
bury had issued orders that in every church 
prayers should be offered for the success of the 
expedition, and the people urged to give ; or, if 
not willing to give money, jewels, property of 
all descriptions, should be extorted from them 
upon any pretense that was at all plausible, in 
order to meet the expenses of the undertaking. 

As Conrad was on his way to Lutterworth 
his litter was stopped by a crowd of ’prentice 
lads from the town and farm laborers, who were 
gathered round a monk, listening to his fierce 
denunciations of the Avignon pope, who was 
charged with being the cause of heavy taxes 
being levied, and every oppression that the 
world groaned under. 

Then the crowd were exhorted to take up 
arms instantly, and be led by that brave captain 
of the Lord, the Bishop of Norwich, who had 
already proved his martial courage, and would 


140 


Conrad. 


lead them on from victory to victory, until every 
town in wealthy Flanders had yielded such an 
amount of spoil that the conquerors would come 
home laden with riches. 

Their superstition, fanaticism, ambition, and 
cupidity, being thus appealed to, little wonder 
was it that the ignorant crowd were ready to do 
any thing that the monk might bid them, or that 
they went beyond his orders, and tried to drag 
off any who were still unwilling to join the cru- 
sading host. 

The litter had stopped, for the roadway was 
completely blocked up, and just as the monk 
had finished speaking the crowd caught sight of 
Conrad, and the next minute, amid fierce cries 
of “Join, the holy war! join the new crusade!” 
Conrad was dragged from his carriage and 
thrown upon the ground. How much farther 
the mob might have gone in their wild folly it 
is hard to say, but at this moment one of those 
who had been sent to fetch Conrad rushed 
forward to his rescue. 

“ Are ye all mad or blind, that ye cannot see 
that he is but a boy, and lame to boot ? ” cried 
the man, raising Conrad as he spoke. 

The boy, though somewhat shaken, was not 
frightened. “ They did not know I was lame,” 
he said, glancing at his poor, shrunken legs ; and 


yerome of Prague. 141 

the crowd, now seeing the mistake they had 
made, fell back somewhat ashamed. 

“And so ye would have me join your holy 
war — the new crusade of one pope against the 
other ! Is this the reformation the world is 
groaning for ? ” 

But the crowd were too excited and impatient 
to listen to a poor lame boy, who could be of no 
possible use in the world ; and so they rushed 
after the monk, while Conrad was lifted into 
the litter again and carried on toward Lutter- 
worth. 

Before the town was reached there was an- 
other hinderance, for near a stone cross by the 
roadside stood a poor scholar — one who had 
learned the truth of God from the lips of Wiclif 
at Oxford, and was now traveling through the 
length and breadth of the land proclaiming the 
glorious Gospel of the grace of God. 

Conrad would have liked to stay and listen 
to the preacher, but the men who had been sent 
to fetch him were anxious to reach Lutterworth 
before sunset, and when they got there it was 
easy to understand their anxiety about this. 
All the town seemed to have gone crazy. Fathers 
were searching and inquiring for missing sons, 
and masters for their ’prentice lads, most of 
whom had run off in the course of the day to 


142 


Conrad. 


hear the monk’s sermon about the crusade, and 
had not returned. 

When the hostelry was reached where Sir 
John Oldcastle and his friends where staying, 
they found the house, like the town, in a state 
of great confusion. Turnspits and ostlers, as 
well as stable men, waiters, and drawers, had 
alike run off, and the guests were calling for 
supper and for their horses to be tended, while 
the host was at his wits’ end to know what to 
do with his impatient customers. 

“ Thou art like to go supperless to bed to- 
night, Conrad,” said Sir John, with something 
of a gloomy smile, as the boy was carried into 
the room. 

“ Nay, nay ; we will wait yet a little while, and 
if supper be not served I will ask mine host to 
let me cook it,” said the scholar, who sat writing 
near the window. 

“ Thou shalt be cook and I will be thy turn- 
spit,” said Sir John, laughing. “I had rather 
things were so than that there should be no 
supper for Master Jerome when he cometh. 
Thou wilt see thy kinsman to-night, Conrad,” 
he added, “ for he hath promised to spend some 
hours with us.” 

Conrad cared far more for this than for the 
best-served supper that could be spread ; for 


Jerome of Prague . 


M3 


he had made up his mind to ask some ques- 
tions that his mother and grandmother alike re- 
fused to answer. lie had not to wait long be- 
fore their visitor was announced, and with al- 
most trembling impatience and earnestness 
Conrad leaned forward to look at the grave, 
gentle-looking young man as he entered the 
room. A warm friendship seemed to have 
sprung up already between Sir John and Je- 
rome, and there they stood, England and Bohe- 
mia’s future martyrs, clasping each other’s hands 
with the warmth of a fraternal embrace. 

“Now I will present thee to a countryman 
and kinsman of thine own, Master Jerome. 
Little Conrad here is from Prague, and his 
grandame saith is of kin to thee.” 

“Thou dost know me?” said Jerome ques- 
tioningly. 

“ Nay, my grandame said thou wert of kin to 
our family,” answered Conrad ; “but thou hadst 
left Prague before we came with the Princess 
Anne to England.” 

“ And what is thy name ? ” asked the Bohe- 
mian. 

“My grandame’s name is Ursula von Zitka, 
but I know not what mine is, except Conrad.” 

“ Is thy mother’s name Ermengarde ? ” asked 
Jerome. 


144 


Conrad. 


“ Yes, and she is in the service of the Princess 
Anne,” said Conrad. 

“And married an Englishman?” continued 
Faulfisch. 

Conrad shook his head. “ I know naught 
concerning my father ; my grandame would 
never tell me even his name.” 

“ Then he is dead, I ween,” said Jerome. 

“ Nay, I know not even that. I asked my 
mother once, but it was so sore a grief to her 
even to hear it mentioned that I have not done 
so since.” 

“ And thou dost not know his name, or 
whether he be alive or dead ! ” uttered Jerome. 

“Nay, I know naught; but I prithee tell me 
all thou knowest, for that my grandame is hid- 
ing something from me — some mystery — some 
shame with which my father is connected — I am 
certainly assured.” 

“ Mystery — shame 1 Who dareth to say that 
Edward Trueman hath aught to do with either ? ” 
exclaimed Faulfisch. 

“Was my fathers name Trueman?” inter- 
rupted Conrad eagerly. 

“ Ah, my little knave, if thou art Ermengarde 
von Zitka’s son, Edward Trueman was thy 
father, and right worthy was he of the name, 
for he was true to God and man, I trow.” 


Jerome of Prague. 145 

Conrad was puzzled, and knew not what to 
say. From hints and words that he had some- 
times heard passing between his mother and 
grandmother he had for some time suspected that 
his father was an Englishman. He also rec- 
ollected that when his mother first brought old 
Ned Trueman home with her, on the day his 
grandmother had started for Canterbury, she 
had seemed uneasy and anxious ; and, also, when 
Dame Ursula came back and heard the old man’s 
name mentioned she seemed uncomfortable, 
and asked him many questions about the mason 
— where he lived, whether he had ever been 
beyond the seas, and whether he had any chil- 
dren. He had thought at the time that it was her 
intense hatred of Lollardism that prompted all 
these questions, and he himself never knew that 
the old man had a son until he heard his brother 
Martin’s tale. Could it be that this lost son 
was his father ? 

His next question was even more eager in 
its intense earnestness. “ Where is my father 
now ? ” he asked. 

But Jerome could only shake his head. 

“ He must be dead, my poor little knave, or 
he would be with thee in England, I trow,” he 
said sadly. 

“ Didst thou see him die ?” asked Conrad. 


146 


Conrad. 


“Nay, my little knave, I had left Prague 
before thou wast born.” 

“ And thou hast not heard from others that 
he was dead ? ” 

“ Nay.” 

“ Then he is not dead ; my father is still 
alive, and I will find him ? ” said Conrad ex- 
citedly. 

Sir John Oldcastle looked at the usually pale 
face, now flushed with excitement, and then at 
the Bohemian scholar, so grave and calm in his 
surprise at the boy’s words ; but when Jerome 
would have spoken again the young nobleman 
interrupted him. 

“ Do not contradict the little knave ! ” he said ; 
“ thou dost not know Conrad yet ; wait awhile, 
and talk of this matter again when thou art 
better acquainted ; and meanwhile tell us how 
it fareth with godly Master Wiclif, for thou hast 
seen him to-day, I trow ? ” 

“Yes, I left him but an hour since, and he 
purposeth to preach on this new crusade on the 
morrow.” 

“ Then thou shalt go and hear him, Conrad,” 
said Sir John. “ What said he concerning the 
Avignon pope?” he asked, turning to Jerome 
once more. 

“ He hopeth that these two antichrists, who 


Jerome of Prague. 147 

are now cursing each other so bitterly, may help 
to bring a blessing on the world.” 

‘‘The popes bring a blessing!” uttered the 
poor scholar in amazement. 

“Not of their own will, I trow; they would 
fain keep the world in darkness and ignorance 
even to the end ; but men are beginning to find 
it is dark, and to grope for the light. They are 
crying for liberty ; they are striving to break 
the bonds in which they have so long been held, 
and now, with the two popes each issuing laws, 
they will learn to see that these are but evil 
priests seeking their own glory and power. He 
hopeth, too, that the nations will call for a coun- 
cil to sit and judge this schism in the Church, 
and that the people’s cry for a reformation may 
be heard then, and evils that have long needed 
amendment may be amended.” 

“What sayest thou?” asked Sir John Old- 
castle, turning to the poor scholar. 

“ I greatly fear that no council will amend 
such sore evils as these under which the Church 
now groaneth,” he said. 

“ But if Master Wiclif saith — ” 

“ Nay, nay ; thou knowest that Master Wiclif 
would not have men think as he saith, but he 
would fain teach them to think for themselves 
an they can ; and so I deem it no dishonor to 


148 Conrad. 

Master Wiclif that I see not as he seeth in this 
matter.” 

“ Nay ; 'tis not so much what he seeth as what 
he hopeth from this council,” said Jerome. 

“ We have little to hope from a council, I trow 
— we shall be adjudged as vile heretics,” said 
the scholar. 

“Nay, nay ; if a council of the Church were 
called to reform its abuses, it would be seen 
that the doctrine Master Wiclif doth teach is 
not heresy, but the very truth of God,” said 
Sir John. “ I am not to be a learned doctor, 
but a soldier ; but there are many wise and 
learned, men who would be called to a council, 
that think as I do this day.” 

Conrad paid but little heed to this talk of a 
council of the Church now, for his mind was too 
full of thought concerning his unknown father, 
and he longed to question Master Jerome fur- 
ther about this matter. 

Sir John Oldcastle knew what was in his* 
mind, and so, after the long-delayed supper had 
been served, he and his friend, the scholar, be- 
took themselves to a distant recess, to talk over 
their plans, leaving Conrad and his kinsman to 
talk of their family affairs without interruption. 

There were questions and cross-questions, 
Conrad telling out plainly all his suspicious 


149 


ycrome of Prague. 

doubts and fears concerning his father’s fate — 
all he had ever heard from his grandmother, all 
her evident aversion to the topic, and how she had 
said that heresy such as Dr. Wiclif s had cursed 
his childhood, and made him a helpless cripple, 
as well as herself and his mother miserable and 
disgraced.” 

“ Disgraced ! ” repeated Jerome ; and then he 
became deeply engrossed in thought. 

Conrad would not disturb him for some time, 
but at length he said, “ Thou didst know my 
father ? ” 

“Yes, I knew him, Conrad, and when I return 
to Bohemia I will make inquiries for him among 
others of our friends. Didst thou ever hear of 
Conrad Strickna and Matthias Janovius ; they 
were accounted heretics by many. Janovius, 
who was confessor to the Emperor Charles, the 
father of Queen Anne, begged that he would call 
a general council for the reformation of the 
Church : but for this, and his defense of the 
people receiving the sacrament in both kinds, 
and also for preaching plainly against the abuses 
of the Church and clergy, he was banished from 
Bohemia by the command of the pope. Did 
thy mother ever tell thee of the troubles that 
fell upon many families in Prague ? ” 

Conrad shook his head. “ I have heard my 
10 


i5o 


Conrad. 


grandame say that there were heretics in Bo- 
hemia.” 

“ But she did not tell thee thy father was one 
of these ? ” 

“Nay ; but I — I feared it,” said Conrad. 

“ Nay, thy father’s son should glory in it ! ” 
said Jerome warmly. 

“ I cannot even be glad yet, but I will seek 
my father ; it shall be my life-work to find him, 
or know how he died,” said Conrad as their 
friends once more joined them. 


The Death of Wiclif. 


151 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE DEATH OF WICLIF. 

"'HE good folk of Lutterworth were much 



J- perplexed and very angry at the hasty de- 
parture of so many of their young men, but 
they were in less of a dilemma than many other 
towns in the kingdom ; for this new crusade to 
help one pontiff against the other served the 
double purpose of drawing men’s minds away 
from the subject of a reform being needed in the 
Church, and also strengthened the hold of the 
Church more firmly upon the people. In Lut- 
terworth the doctrines of Dr. Wiclif had been 
working like unseen leaven for some time, and 
so this wild crusade of the warlike prelate, the 
Bishop of Norwich, was in gather ill odor among 
all but the young and inexperienced, who were 
easily led away by the mere excitement of the 
scheme, and the hope of speedily acquiring 
wealth as well as of seeing new and strange 
countries. 

Dr. Wiclif was not less earnest than his ene- 
mies, the monks, in turning this business to ac- 
count, and the day after Conrad arrived a ser- 


152 


Conrad. 


mon was announced to be preached at the mar- 
ket cross on this new crusade. That Dr. Wic- 
lif denounced it most unsparingly is easy to 
imagine ; but Conrad was hardly prepared to 
hear him say that for men to trust to such 
works as these was wholly in vain ; still less 
was he prepared to hear the next words, uttered 
in a deeply earnest but persuasive tone of 
voice, “Trust wholly to Christ; rely altogether 
upon his sufferings, and seek not to be justified 
in any other way than by his righteousness.” 
Then he went on to speak of the worship and 
invocation of saints, that being a festival of the 
Church, and he said, “ The festival of the day 
is to no purpose if it do not tend to magnify 
Jesus Christ and induce men to love him. 
Moreover, our Redeemer, Jesus Christ, is very 
God as well as very man, and, therefore, on ac- 
count of his divinity, he must infinitely exceed 
any other man. ^\nd this consideration in- 
duces many to think that it would be expedient 
to worship no other being among men except 
Jesus Christ, inasmuch as he is the best Medi- 
ator and best intercessor; and they likewise 
think that when this was the practice of the 
Church it increased and prospered much better 
than it doth now. What folly, then, to apply 
to any other person to be our intercessor ! 


i53 


The Death of Wiclif 

What folly to choose of two persons proposed 
the less eligible of the two to be our interces- 
sor ! Would any one choose the king’s buffoon 
to be an intercessor ? The saints in heaven, in- 
deed, are not buffoons, but in dignity they are 
less compared with Jesus Christ than a buffoon 
is compared with an earthly king.” 

Conrad sat and watched the keen, penetrat- 
ing gaze, the deep, earnest eyes, of Dr. Wiclif, 
almost fascinated by the strange words. They 
were not altogether strange, either, for Margery 
had spoken some such words before ; but then 
it was in the privacy of his room. But to hear 
such things publicly taught, and by one ac- 
counted learned, even by his enemies — one, too, 
who belonged himself to. that mystically holy 
body, the clergy, was something so new and 
startling that long after the crowd had begun 
to disperse Conrad still leaned back in his lit- 
ter, gazing at the grand old man who wielded 
such a mighty power in England. 

As soon as the space round the preacher was 
somewhat cleared Sir John Oldcastle and Je- 
rome Faulfisch pressed forward to speak to 
him. He greeted the two friends warmly, and 
as he passed near the litter he paused and spoke 
a few words to Conrad — words that won the 
boy’s heart at once. “ Thou wouldst be brave, 


154 


Conrad. 


and do a man’s work in the world ; in any case, 
my little knave, pray that thou mayest be brave, 
and do God’s work.” 

Conrad bowed his head. “ Wilt thou pray 
for me, worshipful sir?” he murmured. 

“ Ah, that will I, and this thy friend, Jerome 
of Prague, will do the same, for thou art of kin 
to him, and may help him in his heart’s desire, 
the carrying of the Gospel to his beloved Bo- 
hemia.” 

“ I must seek my father first, and then — ” but 
before he could finish some one else came to 
claim the priest’s attention. 

To try walking about with the crutches Sir 
John Oldcastle had prepared for him was some- 
thing of a diversion for Conrad, and prevented 
him from thinking so uninterruptedly of what 
he had determined should be his life’s work. 
He would fain have set off to Bohemia at once 
if it had been practicable, but Master Faulfisch 
soon convinced him that such a journey was 
impossible at present, and that he would be 
much more likely to succeed in his quest by 
and by if he remained at Lutterworth for the 
present, and studied in the school that had been 
opened by one of Dr. Wiclif’s poor scholars. 
Master Jerome promised the boy that his first 
work, after he got back to Prague, should be to 


The Death of Wiclif 


155 


find his old friend, and that he would see his 
mother before he left England, and find out all 
she knew about the matter. 

This contented Conrad ; nay, he was more 
than content when Faulfisch promised to send 
a letter for him whenever he could find a trusty 
messenger that would bring letters to Dr. Wiclif. 
After a few trials he was able to move about a 
little with the crutches, but his progress was 
very slow, for his back, as well as his limbs, 
was weak ; but still, slow as it was, Conrad was 
delighted at the novelty of being able to walk 
even a few steps, and when he heard that one 
of Dr. Wiclif ’s poor scholars thought he might 
gain strength by being in the open air more, 
and by using a certain decoction of salt and 
water in which some costly stones had been 
laid, he resolved to try this remedy. 

It was very seldom that Conrad had been 
able to go out, but now that he could walk he 
determined to use his crutches, even though he 
could only get outside the door at first and sit 
upon the ground. He made up his mind now 
that he would not leave Lutterworth if he could 
help it ; but whether his grandmother could be 
persuaded to come and live in the town, espe- 
cially when she knew that the school he wished 
to attend was under the direction of Dr. Wiclif, 


56 


Conrad. 


he did not know. Happily this difficulty was 
settled for him by old Martin, his host, who 
came to the hostelry, after he had been there 
about a week, to say that he was obliged to 
move into the town, for his son, who helped him 
in his garden and brought the supplies they 
needed from the town, had joined this new cru- 
sade. greatly to the grief and perplexity of his 
father and mother, who were growing more 
feeble every month. 

“Ye see, worshipful sirs, we shall be starved 
of a certain if we abide where we are, for when 
winter comes the roads are so bad that my poor 
old limbs cannot move for sticking in the mire. 
I would fain move into the town, too, that my 
dame^may go to church sometimes and hear 
the wondrous good words of Master Wiclif, for 
they have been a marvelous comfort to me. 
Not that 1 have not heard something of the like 
before ; my master, the great Duke of Lan- 
caster, bade us ever help the poor scholars who 
were traveling through the country teaching 
men the good words they had learned from Dr. 
Wiclif, and so I have often heard them preach 
in the great hall of the Savoy Palace, at London, 
before the rebels burned it.” 

The old man would have gone on to tell how 
many goodly houses in London the rebels had 


The Death of Wiclif 157 

burned and sacked besides his masters had he 
not been interrupted by Sir John Oldcastle, 
who was almost as eager about Conrad staying 
at Lutterworth as the boy himself. 

“Then thou art coming to live at Lutter- 
worth, Martin, and would fain have this little 
knave and his grandame live with thee still.” 

“ An it please them I should, for they were 
commended to me by my lord duke himself.” 

“ But what saith my grandame, Master Mar- 
tin ? ” asked Conrad. 

“The dame will be pleased to come an it 
pleaseth thee,” replied Martin ; “ but she feared 
that when thy friends left the town thou might- 
est pine for the fields and hedges again, as thou 
lovest them so much : for me, I like a town now, 
and thy grandame is something of my mind, I 
trow.” 

“ Then, if Dame Ursula is pleased to come, the 
matter is settled, for Conrad will be pleased 
to stay,” said Sir John quickly, and, having 
ordered some refreshment to be brought for the 
old man, he went out. 

While Martin was regaling himself with slices 
of boar’s head and brawn, and washing it down 
with copious draughts of strong ale, Conrad 
questioned him about his brother in London — 
oil Ned Trueman, and how long his son had 


158 


Conrad. 


been away. He did not tell him of his own 
supposed relationship to himself, for his friends 
had advised that this should be kept a secret 
at present, more especially as Dame Ursula so 
bitterly hated all heretics. 

But old Martin either had known very little 
about his nephew, or had, during the lapse of 
years, forgotten almost all he had known beyond 
the bare fact that young Ned had gone beyond 
the seas ; of his father being deeply grieved at 
his loss he knew nothing. It was arranged now 
that Conrad should at once commence his 
studies at the school, and remain in Lutter- 
worth until his grandmother could join him. 

For a few weeks longer he had the pleasant 
company of Sir John Oldcastle, who, scarcely 
more than a boy himself, could enter most en- 
thusiastically into all Conrad’s plans for the 
future. A clever scholar himself, he could 
sympathize with Conrad’s desire to be a “ seraph- 
ic doctor ; ” while Conrad had the greatest ad- 
miration for the career Sir John had marked 
out for himself — that of a soldier. To fight the 
hereditary foes of his country, the French ; to 
lead men on from victory to victory, and teach 
the victors how to be merciful and compassion- 
ate to their conquered enemies by respecting 
the rights of property wherever it was possible, 


i59 


The Death of Wiclif. 

and raising an arm in defense of helpless women 
and children, instead of ruthlessly murdering, 
thus robbing war of half its horrors — this was 
the young knight’s dream, and he and Conrad 
would discuss this while his tutor and Jerome 
of Prague were talking over the merits of Dr. 
Wiclif’s various works. 

The pleasant talks came to an end at last, 
however, for as soon as old Martin could find 
a house to suit him he removed to the town. 
Sir John stayed on until they came, for he 
greatly feared that Dame Ursula would raise a 
violent objection to Conrad’s attending the 
school. He had already commenced his studies 
there, for it had been thought advisable that this 
should be done before the old lady came, al- 
though they feared it would not make much 
difference in the opposition she would be sure 
to entertain. 

But, strange to say, she paid very little heed 
to this when Conrad told her. She was so over- 
joyed to see him slowly limp across the room 
on his crutches, and so delighted at the idea of 
preparing the salt-and-water decoction in which 
a precious stone from a serpent’s head was to 
be soaked every day, that she had no thought 
for any thing else. 

“ ’Tis the wonderful stone in which the 


i6o 


Conrad. 


strength lies, and I will take care ’tis well soaked, 
Conrad,” she said ; and the boy was glad that his 
grandmother could still do something for him, 
for that her life was bound up in him he knew. 

There was certainly a change in Dame Ursula 
this summer, and Conrad was not the only one 
who noticed it. She seemed suddenly to have 
grown feeble where she was so energetic and 
fierce before. Heresy seemed to have lostall its 
horror, and she would calmly listen to old Martin 
repeating what he could remember of Dr. Wiclif s 
last sermon. Conrad sometimes feared her mind 
must be failing when he heard this, and recol- 
lected how the very name of Wiclif had been 
sufficient to put her into a violent passion. He 
could scarcely hope that there was any change 
in her own religious opinions, for she never 
entered Lutterworth Church, but went some- 
times to hear a monk recite the legend of some 
saint, and chose for her confessor one who was 
known to be the bitter enemy of Dr. Wiclif. 
Conrad was truly thankful for such unwonted 
peace, and yet it made him strangely anxious 
about his grandmother ; and all through the 
summer and autumn of that year, 1384, he 
watched her with the deepest solicitude, and 
every hour not spent at school was passed with 
her. 


The Death of Wiclif. 


161 


There was another, too, in Lutterworth, whose 
failing health and untiring mental exertions were 
a source of great anxiety to anxious friends. 
Never since had Dr. Wiclif preached at the 
market cross, and it was seldom now that he 
could stand up in the pulpit of his own parish 
church. Paralysis had seized him some time 
before, and, although it was hoped he might be 
spared many years longer, his untiring efforts 
in his study, and the number of tracts and pam- 
phlets that came from his pen to be copied and 
sent broadcast over England, almost forbade 
the hope. 

Conrad had read many of these now, and was 
learning to copy them in English, and for his 
own amusement translated them into Bohemian. 
He thought it would please his friend, Master 
Jerome Faulfisch, to receive one of these pam- 
phlets translated into their native language, and 
so he was most diligent and careful in this self- 
imposed task. 

He had learned by this time that Dr. Wiclif 
differed from the Church in other matters be- 
sides the doctrine of transubstantiation. To 
auricular confession, the sale of indulgences, 
the invocation of saints, the worship of images, 
prayers for the dead, and. the celibacy of the 
clergy, he was decidedly opposed ; and in lan- 


Conrad. 


162 

guage that the poorest and most unlearned could 
understand, he denounced them in all his En- 
glish tracts. The more learned books were 
written in Latin for the use of his scholars, 
who he hoped would carry on his work when 
he was gone. 

That the time of his departure was so near 
was little guessed ; but as the winter drew on 
it became evident that Dr. Wiclif would feel it 
severely. Toward the end of December, how- 
ever, he seemed stronger for a day or two, and 
he decided to conduct the service in church 
himself on the twenty-ninth of that month. It 
was the festival of some saint, and the news 
that Dr. Wiclif himself would preach brought 
many that winter’s day. 

Old Martin and Conrad were among the first 
comers, for a commodious corner where the 
lame boy could recline had been found for him 
near the altar ; and, as a crowd might be ex- 
pected, they were anxious to get there in good 
time. 

Conrad noticed a change in the eager, pene- 
trating countenance of Dr. Wiclit, and there 
was an ashen grayness in it ; but still he seemed 
to be in moderate health, and began to read the 
service of the mass in a clear voice. But just as 
he was about to elevate the host his voice sud- 

















Death of WicIH. 










i6$ 


The Death of Wiclif. 

denly failed, the consecrated bread fell from 
his hand, and he fell prostrate on the steps of 
the altar. Eager, loving hands raised him, but 
he was speechless and insensible. It was a 
second attack of paralysis, and two days after 
he died, to the intense grief of hundreds of 
friends, and the deep joy of as many enemies, 
who, now that his voice was silenced by death, 
hoped that the troublesome doctrines he taught 
might die also. 


Conrad. 


i 66 


CHAPTER XIII. 

WILL THE TROTH DIE? 

HE death of Dr. Wiclif was felt as a severe 



- 1 - blow, and many feared that the new doc- 
trines he had taught — new to that and many 
previous ages, but older in truth than the cere- 
monies and corruptions beneath which they had 
been long buried — would soon be forgotten. 

Poor old Martin, from being one of the most 
sanguine believers in a reformation being near 
at hand, now lost all hope, and often poured 
out his lamentations to Conrad about it. “Ah, 
my little knave, I thought to see it in my day — 
this reformation that all men are talking of. I 
thought that my master, the great duke, and 
Dr. Wiclif together, would do this for England, 
at least ; but now that godly Master Wiclif hath 
been taken, I fear me ’tis an end of all hope.” 

“ Nay, nay ; say not so, Master Martin ; for 
the new teaching of Dr. Wiclif, being the truth 
of God, cannot die, and too many have learned 
to love the truth to let it be forgotten.” 

But old Martin shook his head sadly. “ Thou 
dost not know the world, Conrad. I tell thee 


Will the Truth Die? 


1 67 


this, that those who persecuted Dr. Wiclif and 
drove him from Oxford will persecute those who 
hold his doctrine, and drive them from the 
world, if it be possible/’ 

“ But they will not kill the truth, Martin,” 
said Conrad, calmly. “ I heard one of the poor 
priests who came into the school to-day telling 
of this very matter, and it hath greatly cheered 
me. ‘ The spring will be coming anon,’ he 
said, * and thou wilt see these bare trees clothed 
with leaves, and thou wilt call them new leaves, 
and so they are ; but the like leaves had budded 
and blossomed on the trees aforetime. And so it 
is, I ween, with these truths — these new doc- 
trines taught by Dr. Wiclif : they are the 'old, 
old truths that were taught by the Lord Jesus 
Christ and his apostles and the early martyrs 
of the Church ; but as the Church grew worldly, 
and proud, and self-seeking, these truths became 
buried and forgotten, except as they lived in the 
hearts of a few of God’s chosen people. But, 
though buried deep beneath worldliness, and 
pride, and ambition, and corruption, they were 
not dead, for the truth can never die ; and now, 
at the breath of God, by the voice of Dr. Wiclif, 
they are once more seen peeping forth from the 
cerements in which the Church had bound 

them.’ ” . 

11 


Conrad. 


i 68 

“ And thinkest thou the Church will be pulled 
to pieces quietly that the truth may blossom in 
the world again ? ” asked old Martin, angrily. 

“ If ’tis a true Church, and knoweth the 
times and seasons, and this breath of God’s 
mouth that is rushing through the world creat- 
ing a new spring in men’s hearts and li^es ; and 
if not—” 

“ It will not, I tell thee, Conrad. Thou art 
but a lad, and knowest not the ways of great 
prelates, as I have seen them. Thinkest thou 
they will give up their wealth, and live sober, 
godly lives, teaching and preaching like a poor 
priest ? Dost thou think the monks and friars 
will give up a life of luxury and idleness, and 
work like a poor villain, or learn, instead of being 
ignorant and lazy, that they may teach like any 
poor scholar. Nay, nay, Conrad ; Dr. Wiclif 
hath begun to pull down the hornets’ nests, and 
hath made havoc of many fair-seeming things 
in the Church ; but the hornets will abide in 
their nests still, and no better things being 
found for those that are destroyed, men will 
cling to them still, and the Church will laugh to 
scorn twenty Dr. Wiclifs, I trow.” 

“ Nay, but if this be Gods time for giving to 
the world a reformer and a reformation,” said 
Conrad, “ then — ” 


Will the Tnith Die ? 169 

“ But what if the world will none of it ? ” 
interrupted Martin. 

“ Nay, but the world is crying and groaning 
for it,” said Conrad, almost as quickly. 

“ Yea, the world is crying for it, as thou 
sayest ; but is it such a reformation as God 
would give — as Dr. Wiclif taught by life and 
doctrine — that the world would have. I trow 
not, Conrad, I trow not,” said the old man, 
shaking his head. 

“ But if it be God’s time, Master Martin, the 
world must have it,” said. Conrad. . 

The old man sat musing for a minute or two, 
and then said, “ God worketh in the world by 
means of men, as be doth in the field by sun- 
shine and showers ; but men are not suns nor 
raindrops. God worketh by them through their 
wills, and if they will not to work with him then 
is the work stayed, even though it be God’s 
work, and for the good of men. This I heard 
from Dr. Wiclif himself, my little knave.” 

“ But Dr. Wiclif hoped there would be a 
reformation in the Church soon,” said Conrad 
energetically. “ He hoped the nations would 
call a council of the Church to correct its abuses, 
and—” 

“Nay, nay, Conrad ; ’tis as useless to talk of 
councils as of popes. I shall not live to see a 


Conrad. 


170 

reformation, though it may be thou wilt, if thou 
art spared to a good old age.” 

The conversation was interrupted here by 
the entrance of Dame Ursula, to whom the 
v.ery word “reformation” was a detestation and 
a horror. She had not mentioned the name of 
Wiclif, but it was easy to see that, his death was 
a source of joy to her, and she began t'o look 
forward to the time when the little band of his 
disciples at Lutterworth should be dispersed, 
and Conrad would return to the Church once 
more, and believe it perfect and holy as she her- 
self did. 

But as the weeks and months went on she 
saw little sign of her hopes being fulfilled. The 
school where the reformer’s doctrines 'were 
taught and his books copied and translated was 
still carried on, and Conrad was now one of its 
foremost pupils. 

She wished it were otherwise. She almost 
wished he would don a white cloak with the 
red cross on one shoulder, that the ’prentice lads 
assumed now in imitation of the old crusaders ; 
for the army in Flanders, with its bishop-leader, 
was daily being recruited, and the excitement 
of this “ holy war” was by no means at an end. 
But O, the tale of horror that came with the 
news of their first success ! They took Grave- 


Will the Truth Die ? 


171 


lines and they took Dunkirk, hewing men, wom- 
en and children to pieces in one vast massacre, 
and the woes of war were doubled and trebled 
in this new crusade of Christian against Chris- 
tian, pope against pope. 

But Conrad evinced no desire to join the 
white-cloaked, red-crossed bands that some- 
times paraded through the streets ; he did not 
even express a wish to be able to throw his 
crutches aside ; but seemed quite content to 
limp backward and forward to school, or for a 
short ramble occasionally with his grandmother 
and old Martin. 

In a few months came other news from the 
seat of war in Flanders. Disaster followed dis- 
aster, and the bishop-general was at last glad to 
purchase an inglorious retreat by giving up all 
the towns he had taken ; and the Avignon pope 
reigned in undisturbed luxury, while his rival 
at Rome cared not a jot for the torrents of hu- 
man blood that had been spilled in his name. 

But after a time other news reached Lutter- 
worth, that affected the little company of Wic- 
lif’s disciples far more deeply. The prelates 
had waited some three years now, hoping that, 
Wiclif being dead, the doctrines he had taught 
would be forgotten ; but, so far from this being 
the case, they were spreading to so great an 


I?2 


Conrad. 


extent that in some counties of England com- 
plaint was made that every second man was a 
Lollard. In London the citizens were embrac- 
ing the new doctrines, and even some of the 
clergy themselves. One of the pope’s chaplains, 
an Augustinian friar, preached publicly at St. 
Christopher’s Church on the vices of the clergy. 
His fellow-monks burst into the church and 
served him with an interdict, but the Lollards 
drove them out, and the chaplain soon after 
affixed a writing on the doors of St. Paul’s 
that he had “ escaped from the companionship 
of the worst of men to the most perfect and 
holy life of a Lollard.” But if this gave joy 
and hope to many who were still waiting and 
watching for the dawn of the hoped-for refor- 
mation — hoping for some one to appear who 
could take Dr. Wiclif’s place as the leader, the 
teacher, the reformer — their joy was but of 
short duration ; for it was soon noised abroad 
that the Archbishop of Canterbury had de- 
termined to put down Lollardism, and was com- 
ing to Leicester, there to hold a court, and sol- 
emnly excommunicate, with bell, book, and 
candle, all who would not read a public recan- 
tation of their errors. Many recanted, of course, 
and many more were frightened into silence or 
attending the confessional again ; and Arch- 


Will the Truth Die ? 


173 


bishop Courtney may have thought he had 
given a severe check to Lollardism, while many 
continued praying and watching for the leader 
to arise who could take Wiclif’s place. 

This want of a leader was felt most severely, 
and led to a good many mistakes on the part 
of some who called themselves Lollards, but 
had very little of the true spirit of Wiclif. 
Doubtless in those turbulent and unsettled 
times — turbulent and unsettled even for that 
age — many things were charged to the Lol- 
lards of which they were not guilty; for the 
dethronement and death of King Richard, and 
the accession of his cousin, Henry IV., son of 
the Duke of Lancaster, with other political 
troubles, almost disorganized every rank in so- 
ciety for some time. Queen Anne had died at 
the palace of Shene some years before the dis- 
astrous close of her husband’s reign, and about 
ten years after the death of Wiclif ; and soon 
after her death Dame Ermengarde came to 
Lutterworth to make arrangements for their 
speedy return to Bohemia. To her great sur- 
prise Dame Ursula positively refused to go 
back. 

“ But, my mother, thou hast often said thou 
wouldst go back to Prague, for thou likest not 
this country,” said her daughter, and it was 


174 


Conrad. 


evident that she was greatly disappointed by 
her mother’s refusal to return to their native 
country. 

Conrad, too, urged that she would go for his 
sake, as he greatly longed to see the place 
where he was born, and the friends who had 
known his father. But at the mention of his 
father Dame Ursula seemed more determined 
than ever not to leave Lutterworth. 

Conrad was no longer a child, but a grave, 
thoughtful young man, and he noticed the 
change in his grandmother’s manner at the 
mention of his father. 

“It is ever so, my mother,” he said, when he 
mentioned this circumstance to her afterward. 

Dame Ermengarde tried to avoid this subject 
now, as she had done before when he had told 
her of Jerome Faulfisch and what he had said 
concerning his father. But Conrad would not 
be put off again. “ I know my father was an 
Englishman — one Edward Trueman, so that my 
name is of right Conrad Trueman, and not Con- 
rad von Zitka,” he said. “ Hast thou seen my 
grandfather of late ? ” he asked. 

“ Thy grandfather, Conrad ? ” 

“Yes; the kindly old mason who came so 
often to see me at Holywell. He knew not 
that I was the child of his lost son, and I have 


Will the Truth Die ? 


1 75 

kept the thing secret too long, I fear, but he 
shall know it ere long.” 

“ Conrad, what art thou saying ? ” asked his 
mother, with whitening lips. 

“ That I mean to seek for my father until I 
find him, or learn the manner of his death” 

“ Conrad, Conrad, thou must not do this — 
thou must not let the name of Trueman be 
heard in Prague. Von Zitka is an old, an hon- 
ored name in Bohemia ; be content to bear that, 
my son, my Conrad.” 

But Conrad drew himself away as his mother 
would have embraced him. 

“ Thou speakest thus, my mother, and of 
my father, too ? Thou sayest I shall bear my 
grandame’s name ; but I have no right to that, 
since my father’s name was Trueman ; and this 
I know from Jerome Faulfisch. He promised 
to search for him when he went back to Bohe- 
mia, but since Dr. Wiclif died no letter hath 
come from him, and so, now I am a man, I will 
begin the work to which I have vowed to devote 
my life, to — to find my father. Wilt thou help 
me, my mother?” 

“ I cannot ! O, Conrad, I cannot ! Would to 
God that I could ! ” and Dame Ermengarde fell 
back unconscious, feebly murmuring the last 
words. 


i 7 6 


Conrad. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


IN LONDON. 



ONRAD was no longer a child, but still he 


* could not return to Bohemia against the 
wishes of his mother, and he knew she would 
never consent to his going without her ; while to 
attempt to move his grandmother from her de- 
termination not to leave England was equally 
useless, and so the family stayed on at Lutter- 
worth for some time; but just after the depo- 
sition of King Richard the old lady consented 
to go to London, for Conrad was anxious for 
many reasons to remove thither. He wanted to 
see Ned Trueman, and try to discover from him 
whether the old man was, as he imagined, his 
grandfather. He blamed himself now for not 
trying to make sure of this before, for only one 
letter had reached him from Prague during all 
these years, and Master Jerome Faulfisch had 
not been able to discover any clew to his father’s 


fate. 


Dame Ermengarde was rather unwilling to go 
back to London, for Conrad made no secret of 
being a Lollard ; and, as these opinions were 


In London. 


1 77 


growing more dangerous every day, she thought 
he would be safer in quiet, out-of-the-way Lut- 
terworth. 

But Conrad thought otherwise. “ My mother, 
more than half the citizens of London are Lol- 
lards now, and the new king — this Henry of 
Lancaster — hath but little right to the crown, 
and so he will npt dare to persecute the Lollards, 
even if he desire not to follow in his father’s 
steps in being their protector, for ’tis to the 
people he must look, I trow, if he would conquer 
his foes and keep his throne.” 

And so in the spring of the year 1400 the 
little family traveled by slow stages to London, 
for Dame Ursula was very feeble now, and the 
ill-kept roads and the clumsy conveyances made 
traveling both tedious and fatiguing to those 
who could not ride on horseback. 

Conrad had decided to seek Master Winches- 
ter and his old friend, Mistress Margery, as soon 
as his mother and grandmother were settled 
near their old home in Holywell, and so a day 
or two after their arrival he set out on this 
errand. 

To find Master Winchester, the merchant of 
Chepe, was not difficult ; but it was less easy for 
a lame man to push his way between the itiner- 
ant venders of different wares, keep his crutches 


i;8 


Conrad. 


from slipping in the narrow, filthy streets, and 
look after his personal belongings to see that 
they were not stolen. In this latter particular 
he was not successful, for he scarcely entered 
the city before his cap was snatched from his 
head, and the rogue made off with it so fast that 
Conrad could not hope to catch him, and so 
gave up the attempt at once. 

Close to Master Winchester’s stall, however, 
he saw the cap again ; the very rogue who had 
stolen it was offering it for sale with several 
others of different sorts that were, doubtless, 
obtained in the same way. 

Conrad, unused to the ways of London, claimed 
his cap, and taxed the rogue with the theft ; but 
the man so stoutly maintained his innocence, 
calling Conrad a seditious Lollard, and gather- 
ing a crowd of the roughest of the people around 
them, that at last, to escape the annoyance, he 
was glad to buy his cap at its full value, rather 
than present himself at the merchant’s house 
without one. 

Master Winchester recollected the name of 
Conrad as soon as it was mentioned, and at 
once invited him to go in and see his niece, 
while he sent to inform his daughter, Dame 
Margery Gilpin, of his arrival. 

Conrad had forgotten the change that the 


In London . 


179 


passing years had made in himself, and almost 
expected to see the Mistress Margery he had 
last seen at Holywell ; he was not, therefore, 
at all prepared to see a stout, comely matron, 
with two rosy well-grown boys at her side, 
almost as tall as the Mistress Margery of the 
old days. He felt a little disappointed, he 
scarcely knew why, at finding her — Dame Gil- 
pin, too ; while she, recalling her dismissal as 
his teacher, wondered that he should seek those 
who were every-where known as most obstinate 
Lollards. 

Before they had exchanged a dozen words, 
however, Dame Gilpin knew that her old pupil 
was as much a Lollard as herself, and so she 
invited him to go home with her and spend the 
day at her house. “ My father and some other 
friends among the merchants are to meet at our 
house about four of the clock, and thou may- 
est hear how it fareth with us here.” 

“ I shall be right glad to meet any who are 
friends of thine. But tell me first how fareth 
it with Master Filpot, the armorer, and his friend 
Trueman, the mason, and my good friend Master 
Geoffrey Chaucer.” 

“ Master Filpot is well, and thy friend, the 
mason, is as hale as ever ; but Master Chaucer 
is sick, and ’tis greatly feared he will never gain 


Conrad. 


180 

strength again, for he is an old man— seventy- 
two — ^and hath seen much travel and many 
changes. Our good lord, King Henry hath re- 
stored his pension to him, or he would be in 
sore want, I trow. Hast thou heard of the 
wondrous poesy he hath writ ? ” 

Conrad shook his head. “ We hear but little 
at Lutterworth,” he said. 

“ Well, he hath writ marvelous tales in poesy 
of what a certain band of pilgrims did and said 
on the road to Canterbury. It is not finished 
yet, for this grievous sickness hath hindered the 
writing of it, and some fear it will never be fin- 
ished now.” 

“ I will go and see Master Chaucer before I 
go to Bohemia,” said Conrad. 

“ Thou art going back to thine own country, 
then ? ” said Dame Gilpin. 

“ I would fain go by the next ship that doth 
cross the sea, but my grandame is feeble and 
sick, and, moreover, refuseth to go ; so it may be 
I shall be in London for months or years.” 

“ Then thou must ask Master Chaucer to let 
thee read his poesy of the Canterbury Tales. 
’Twill please thee, I trow, for even Master Wiclif 
himself could not show to men the evil lives of 
monks and priests more plainly than Master 
Chaucer hath, and ’tis such grand poesy as hath 


In London. 


1 8 1 


never been writ before, many learned people 
say.” 

“ Then I will certainly ask Master Chaucer 
to let me see it,” said Conrad, and then he 
turned to speak to the two boys, while their 
mother went in search of her father, to tell 
him she was going to take Conrad home with 
her. 

Master Gilpin was a merchant of Chepe, like 
his former master and father-in-law, and, like 
him, was known to be a staunch Lollard. 

There were Lollards and Lollards in those 
days, even as in these there are Christians and 
Christians. The discontented and seditious — 
those who made a profit of the disorganized 
state of the times, and would raise a clamor 
against all law — these called themselves Lollards. 
Then there were those who had long sighed for 
civil liberty, but knew not that they were in 
bondage to sin while they yielded to their own self- 
ish desires, and often adopted illegal means to 
obtain redress for their wrongs. These, too, were 
Lollards. Then last, but not least, was the faith- 
ful band of earnest souls who had learned from 
Dr. Wiclif not only to be dissatisfied with the 
teachings and doctrines of the Church of Rome, 
but also to seek that pardon for sin which they 
had learned to feel was a more cruel bondage 


Conrad. 


182 

than the fetters and chains of outward observ- 
ances which the Church called religion. 

Among these last were Dame Gilpin and her 
husband, and many of their friends were like- 
minded ; but there were others, too, who cared 
very little for this inner spiritual life, who yet 
cried most loudly for liberty of conscience, lib- 
erty to hold land, and that liberty to buy and 
sell where they pleased, but cared very little for 
that liberty wherewith Christ makes his people 
free, although they called themselves Lollards 
and devoted followers of Wiclif. 

It seemed that this meeting of the foremost 
Lollards of London was to discuss what it would 
be best to do, now that King Henry, to pro- 
pitiate the Church and its powerful archbishop, 
Arundel, had declared himself the protector of 
the Church, and the help of the crown was 
promised to the clergy in their efforts to put 
down all itinerant preachers. 

“ What sayest thou to these things, Master 
Gilpin ? ” asked one. 

“ Nay, thou knowest that I have always ad- 
vised a quiet, peaceable holding of our own doc- 
trines in the matter of religion ; but — ” 

“ Thou knowest Master Gilpin was ever 
against the writings being set up on every 
church door and wall in London, threaten- 


In London. 183 

ing that there would be a rising of the Lol- 
lards,” interrupted another. 

“ Ah ! 'twas an ill-advised act, and hath done 
much evil, I trow,” said Master Winchester. 

“ Nay, good gossips, but if it hath frightened 
Archbishop Arundel, and taught him that we 
cannot be put down, and will not give up striv- 
ing for our liberties, it is well.” 

“ But hath it done this ? ” asked two or three 
together ; “ or hath it not rather led the king to 
look upon us as rebels and seditious knaves, 
and may not our city lose its chartered liberty 
by it ?” 

“ Nay, nay,” shouted some ; but when the 
clamor had ceased an old man rose to speak 
whom Conrad had not seen before. 

“ Our declaration that we be seditious knaves, 
and ready to rebel against our good lord, hath 
not frightened the archbishop, but it hath fright- 
ened the king and the Parliament, and they are 
going to make a new law whereby it shall be 
lawful to burn all heretics condemned by the 
Church.” 

For a few minutes the little company could 
only look at the speaker aghast, and then at 
each other in blank amazement. But that the 
speaker was one who could not be contradicted 
in such matters, inasmuch as he was in a 
12 


184 


Conrad. 


position to know what was in the court and 
Parliament, they would have been ready to say 
that such news could not be true. 

At last Master Gilpin said, “ If it be as thou 
sayest, then must we look to God to be our 
helper in the hour of trial.” 

“Yea, for we shall verily need help,” said 
Master Sawtree. This man had formerly been 
a priest at King’s Lynn, but, being convicted 
before the warlike Bishop of Norwich of hold- 
ing Wiclif’s doctrines, he had been driven out 
of the diocese, and was now a preacher at St. 
Osyth, in the city of London. 

Every one looked for Master Sawtree to ad- 
vise them in this difficulty ; but it seemed that 
he could say nothing beyond exhorting them to 
study more diligently than ever the word of 
God, and to be much in prayer for strength to 
meet the fiery trial, if it became the duty of 
either of them to confess Christ before the world. 
The pale, gentle face of the speaker, and his 
tremulous, diffident manner, made more impres- 
sion upon his hearers than the words them- 
selves. Could it have been that he had a pre- 
monition of his own weakness in the hour of 
trial — of his shameful defeat, that yet ended in 
a glorious victory — for William Sawtree was the 
proto martyr of the Reformation in England — 


In London. 


135 


a weak and feeble leader of a glorious band of 
men and women, England’s contingent to the 
“ noble army of martyrs,” gathered from all ages 
and all lands ? 

The announcement that the king and Par- 
liament alike contemplated the passing of a law 
for the burning of heretics, and that this was 
specially aimed at the Lollards, cast a gloom 
over the little company, and before they parted 
that night they had settled that, though they 
would not give up the purer faith they had 
learned from Wiclif, it would be wise to hold 
their meetings more secretly, and to hide the 
Bible and books of Wiclif. 

It was a bitter disappointment to Conrad, as 
well as many others, to find that the son of the 
Duke of Lancaster, who had been called the 
father of the Reformation, should now forsake 
that cause and range himself as its persecutor ; 
but the reason was not far to seek. Henry’s 
title to the throne was one of might against 
right ; and although, to secure the favor of the 
people, he was daily granting more power to the 
Commons than any of his predecessors had done, 
there was another power to be conciliated, 
greater even than the people at large — the 
Church. To offend the powerful hierarchy of 
Rome was to have himself proclaimed as a 


1 86 


Conrad. 


usurper, his people stirred up to rebel against 
him, and foreign foes incited to invade the land, 
and Henry IV. loved power and a throne in 
this world rather than to share affliction with 
the people of God for a little while, and after- 
ward to inherit a kingdom not made with hands, 
eternal in the heavens. 

The news that had first reached the little 
company at Dame Gilpin’s was speedily con- 
firmed, and when Conrad went to see Master 
Filpot, the armorer, he found him in such dis- 
tress as to be scarcely able to work. His busi- 
ness as an armorer had greatly increased of late, 
and there were now so many new fashions in 
armor that he was obliged to keep several men 
employed about the stithy ; but when he heard 
who Conrad was, and the business he had come 
upon, he motioned him to keep silence until 
they were out of hearing. 

“They are all Lollards, or call themselves 
such,” said Master Filpot when he had taken 
his visitor in the house and closed the door ; 
“every second man is a Lollard now, as thou 
knowest ; but there will not be one in ten bold 
enough to call himself by that name ere long, 
for there will be a sifting, I trow — a sifting of the 
wheat from the chaff — and thou knowest what 
will follow, Conrad.” 


In London . 


1 87 


But Conrad shook his head. 

Master Filpot leaned forward 'and spoke in a 
low, impressive voice, “The chaff will be scat- 
tered, but the wheat will be garnered — garnered 
up there,” and he pointed upward. 

“Nay, Master Filpot, though it be that we 
are living in evil times the Church will but try 
to frighten us, I trow, with this new statute for 
the burning of such as conform not to her laws. 
But I came not to talk about this, but about 
thine old gossip, Master Trueman. How far- 
eth it with him ? ” 

But before the question could be answered 
Ned Trueman, with the familiarity of an old 
friend, had pushed open the door and walked 
in. He would have retreated when he saw a 
stranger in the room, but Conrad limped over 
on his crutches and seized the old man’s hand, 
for, unlike Dame Gilpin and Master Filpot, 
Trueman did not look a day older than when he 
had last seen him. 

The mason laughed when Conrad said this. 
“ Ah, my knave, it may be I am not so old as 
thou deemest me,” he said ; “ the years came 
on me all at once, and there’s no room for more 
then, I trow ? But now tell me what hath 
brought thee to London ? Art thou a Lollard, 
like the rest of us ? ” 


1 88 


Conrad. 


“ Art thou a Lollard ? ” asked Conrad. 

“ Nay, how could I help it, loving liberty as 
I do ? Liberty and Lollardism have become 
one, and I will abide a Lollard and a heretic 
now,” said Trueman stoutly. 


A Confession. 


189 


CHAPTER XV. 

A CONFESSION. 

ONRAD thought it would be better to see 



Trueman alone to talk over what he had 
heard from Faulfisch, and so he proposed to 
pay him a visit the following day, a proposal 
that quite delighted the old man, although he 
had no idea what the business could be that 
Conrad desired to see him about. 

“ Thou didst have a son who left thee many 
years since ; canst thou tell me any thing con- 
cerning him ? ” said Conrad, entering at once 
upon the business when he saw Trueman the 
next day. 

The old man stared, and his lip quivered as 
he slowly shook his head. “There is little 
enough to tell, Master Conrad,” he said sadly. 
“ I thought the knave willful then ; but I was too 
severe, I trow, and Ned never knew how much 
I loved him. But wherefore didst thou think 
of this ?” he asked. 

“ 1 would fain know all thou canst tell me. 
What manner of man was my father ? and — 

“Thy father!” repeated Trueman, staring at 


Conrad. 


190 

Conrad, and then the old man drew his hand 
across his eyes, as if they were deceiving him. 

“ Yes, I verily believe thy lost son was my 
father,” said Conrad, in *a voice trembling with 
agitation ; and then he told him all he had 
heard from Jerome of Prague concerning his 
unknown parent. 

“ It must be as thou sayest, and, now I look 
at thee, thou art like my Ned, only that he was 
a strong, stalwart fellow, fit to fight in any war 
when he went to Flanders.” 

“ He went to Flanders ? ” repeated Conrad. 

“Ah, whither would he go but there? ’Tis 
across sea, I trow, and Bohemia is across sea, 
too, so that ’tis all one after all.” 

“Wilt thou come and see my mother? It 
may be she can tell thee whether my- father 
came from Flanders to Bohemia,” said Conrad. 

“An it be as thou thinkest I must away to 
this far country to seek for my son,” said True- 
man. “ And thou, Conrad, thou art his son.” 

“ I will go with thee, doubt not,” and he 
fell upon the old man’s neck, while Trueman 
clasped him in his arms in a long embrace. 

“ My son, my long lost Ned ! ” he murmured 
through his falling tears, and then he looked 
into Conrad’s face again, as if to trace the linea- 
ments of the son he had not seen for so many 


A Confession. 19 1 

years. “You are my Ned’s child. I can see 
him in thy face, Conrad — fool that I was not 
to see it before ! but my heart saw it though 
my eyes were blinded. And now let us go to 
thy mother. I must see my Ned’s wife, my 
daughter, once more, and ask her to tell me all 
she knoweth of him.” 

“ She will tell all she can, fear not ; but ’tis 
my grandame that could tell us most, I ween,” 
said Conrad. 

“ Then she shall tell ! I will wring this mys- 
tery, this secret, from her,” and the old man 
clenched his fist as though he would strike as 
well as threaten her if she refused to tell him 
all she knew. 

Dame Ermengarde knew the errand upon 
which Conrad had gone to see his old friend, 
and, therefore, was not surprised to see him re- 
turning with Conrad ; but she was not prepared 
for such a demonstration of affection, for the old 
man caught her in his arms and kissed her as 
he had kissed Conrad. “Thou wert kind to 
him — my son — whom I had driven away by my 
harshness,” he said as he released her. 

Dame Ermengarde was too much overcome 
to reply for a minute or two, but at length she 
managed to say, “ I — I fear I have not been a 
good wife to my poor Edward, but — ” 


192 


Conrad. 


“ Never mind the past ; only tell me where he 
is — where* I can find him — what hath become 
of him.” 

But Dame Ermengarde, choked with sobs 
and almost blinded with tears, could only shake 
her head as she fell back upon her seat. 

“But Dame Ursula knoweth, and she must 
tell me,” said Trueman firmly. 

Dame Ermengarde could only shake her 
head, and protest that she dare not ask her 
mother such a question now ; but Ned True- 
man, hearing the old lady call her daughter, cut 
short these protestations by going himself to 
her bedside. 

“ Dame Ursula, I want my son, and thou 
shalt tell me where they took him when they 
carried him away from wife and child.” 

The old woman stared at him for a minute 
or two, and then broke out into a piteous wail. 
“ I knew it ! I knew thou wouldst come to 
wring my secret from me ; but I tell thee thou 
shalt not spoil the good work I have done. If 
Conrad there is a heretic Lollard I have saved 
his father, I trow. The monks have brought 
him back to the true faith, and he is reconciled 
to the Church, and a holy monk himself, or he 
would have come to England long ere this.” 

“ Where is he, woman ? what prison didst 


A Confession. 193 

thou send him to?” cried Trueman, trembling 
with passion. 

Conrad, who had followed his grandfather 
into the room, saw that little good, but much 
harm, might be done by this rashness ; and so, 
gently pushing him aside, he said, “ Grandame, 
this is my father’s father, and we would fain 
know what monastery he went to when he went 
away from Prague.” 

“ Who says I betrayed him to the monks ?” de- 
manded the old woman fiercely ; then, changing 
her tone, she wailed forth, " I could not help it, 
Conrad, I could not help it ! the disgrace of 
having a heretic in my family was so great ; and 
then it was a good work — surely it was a good 
work. The holy Father Matthias, my confess- 
or, said it would be accounted so good a work 
that I should escape the pains of purgatory 
myself, and secure the salvation of thy father 
and mother, and thine, too ; and that thy father 
should come home again as soon as he was 
reconciled to the Church. The holy fathers of 
the Dominican monastery had undertaken to 
secure his salvation, and so surely I ought to 
help in so good a work.” 

Conrad had let her ramble on, hoping that in 
her present feeble state she would disclose the 
closely guarded secret ; and, now that she had 


194 


Conrad. 


done so, he almost trembled with excitement, 
while Trueman was in such a rage as he list- 
ened to her that Conrad could with difficulty 
keep him from seizing and shaking her. At 
last he got him away from the bedside, and out 
of the room. 

“ Thou wilt spoil all by thy rashness,” he said 
half angrily. “ Stay here awhile, and doubtless 
I shall now find where this Dominican monas- 
tery is,” and, fearing lest his grandmother’s 
mind should wander again, as it frequently had 
of late, he went back at once to her bedside. 

“ Now, grandame, thou wilt tell me more 
about thy confessor, and this work that he set 
thee to do.” 

“’Twas a good work, Conrad, and the saints 
will reward me and thy mother for all we have 
suffered in doing it. She thinks I know naught 
of the suffering ; but ah ! she knows not that of 
late I can think of nothing else but the iron- 
stanchioned door near the gate of the city — ” 

“ What city was it, grandame ? ” questioned 
Conrad. 

“ What city should it be but Prague ? My 
Ermengarde and all our friends were told that 
he had left the city — left it on urgent business ; 
and he thought it was so himself until they 
dragged him into the monastery gates.” 


A Confession. 195 

“Didst thou see him taken? wert thou with 
them, grandame ? ” 

“ Was I not with him ? ” asked Dame Ursula, 
fiercely. “ Thou knowest that my confessor 
bade me walk with him beyond the city gates 
three days after thou were born, and I went. 
Who said I betrayed him ? Who said he turned 
his pale face toward me, and looked as though I 
had murdered him ? ’Twas a good work, I tell 
thee ; the Church of Bohemia was threatened 
with overthrow if the heresy was not cast out 
of her, and our name — our ancient, honorable 
name^-was disgraced by the heresy ; and so it 
surely was a good work to take away the dis- 
grace, and to prove that we were still faithful 
servants of holy Church, and that this English- 
man was no true Von Zitka although he had 
taken our name. Yes, ’twas a good work, I tell 
thee. Take away thine accusing eyes — thy blue, 
English, heretic eyes — Ned Trueman ; why dost 
thou come to torment me because I tried to save 
thee from purgatory and perdition ? ” And the 
poor old woman became so excited that Conrad 
and his mother could with difficulty soothe her. 

Old Ned Trueman, who stood by the half- 
opened door, listening to every word she ut- 
tered, could scarcely be restrained from going 
in and reproaching her. 


196 


Conrad. 


“ Nay, nay ! do not be so harsh to my poor 
old grandame ; she hath — ” 

“ Harsh ! ” repeated the old man, “ she hath 
murdered my son. Harsh, forsooth ! Hast 
thou any thought for thy murdered father ? ” 

“ Thou knowest that I have ! Ah ! thou know- 
est not how I have longed to see him ; but I 
know, too, that my grandame hath done this 
evil deed believing that it was good, since her 
confessor told her it was needful for the Church 
and for the salvation of his soul.” 

But Ned Trueman shook his head. “’Twas 
base and cruel, and how could she believe it 
was good ? ” 

“ Thou art a Lollard now, and canst doubt 
many things that the Church accounteth good ; 
but it was not always so with thee. Thou 
didst hate the Lollards aforetime ; and where- 
fore was it but because the Church called them 
evil and seditious, and thou deemedst that the 
Church must be right. Even so my grandame 
believed, and when her confessor told her she 
could save my father’s soul, and turn away the 
disgrace from the old name of Von Zitka by 
delivering him over to be reconciled to the 
Church, she believed it was a good and noble 
work she was called to do. The Church hath 
blinded men’s eyes and perverted their con- 


197 


A Confession. 

sciences. She hath put darkness for light, and 
called evil good, and my grandame hath but 
believed her, and followed her teaching, as a 
silly sheep, witless and helpless.” 

But it was some time before the old man 
could look upon the matter in this light. His 
son had been murdered by these persecuting 
black friars, whose chief mission in the world 
was the extirpation of heresy. In his anger 
against Dame Ursula he forgot his own part in 
the affair, that his hardness and harshness had 
driven his son away. 

But it soon became evident that Dame Ur- 
sula would not long be a source of altercation, 
for after the unusual excitement following upon 
the recital of what had so long been a mystery 
both to Conrad and his mother her strength 
began visibly to decline. Once or twice when 
Dame Ermengarde was bending over her the 
pale, thin lips moved, and she murmured : “ For- 
give, Ermengarde ; forgive, Edward ; it was a 
good work, a very good work. Lord Jesus, for- 
give,” and, murmuring these last words, she 
died, a week after she had divulged the secret 
that so long lay hidden in her own heart. 

As soon as Dame Ursula was buried, Conrad 
and his mother, with Ned Trueman, began to 
prepare for their journey to Bohemia. As it 


198 


Conrad. 


was uncertain how long they might be gone, or 
whether they would ever return to England 
again, this necessarily took up some time ; for 
Conrad had to go to Lutterworth for the final 
settlement of some business there, and to ob- 
tain some more of Dr. Wiclif’s books to take 
with him to his native land. 

Ned Trueman also had some affairs to settle; 
for the money he had saved, in the hope of one 
day being able to purchase some land, he now 
resolved to take with him to rescue his son, if 
he was still living ; and so there were several 
visits to the Lombard merchants, who were the 
chief bankers of London. 

Then last, but not least, there were the visits 
to friends — to Master Winchester and his gentle 
niece, Mary, who promised to write .to Conrad, 
and tell him all that befell her uncle and her 
dear cousin, Dame Margery Gilpin. Master 
Filpot, the armorer, in spite of worldly prosper- 
ity and the increase of his business, talked 
about selling all his armor at reduced prices, 
and giving up his smithy, to go with them ; and 
Dame Ermengarde urged him to do so. “En- 
gland is no longer a safe abiding place since 
this new law hath been passed for the burning 
of heretics,” she said ; “ and I would that my 
Conrad were beyond the sea, for he is overbold 


A Confession. 199 

in speech, and avoweth to all men that he is a 
Lollard/' 

“ Nay, nay, my daughter ; this new law is but 
a trick of Archbishop Arundel to frighten men 
out of Lollardism ; and doubtless many will be 
more punctual in paying all the Church dues 
and going to confession, so that others may rest 
in peace.” 

Others may have rested in the same hope, 
but it was soon dispelled. Before their prepa- 
rations were completed they heard the start- 
ling news that the preacher of Saint Osyth, 
Master William Sawtree, whom Conrad had 
met at Dame Gilpin’s, had been arrested for 
refusing to worship the cross or the bread in 
the sacrament. Another charge was that he 
had declared a priest was more bound to preach 
the word of God than to recite particular serv- 
ices at certain canonical hours. 

That his condemnation was decided upon 
almost before he was arrested soon became ap- 
parent, and all that his friends could do for him 
at his trial was useless. He was condemned 
by Archbishop Arundel, and, with the hypocrisy 
that marked all the doings of the Church, he 
was handed over to the secular power, with the 
recommendation that he should be dealt with 
mercifully. Mercifully! when every nerve had 
13 


200 


Conrad. 


been strained by the Church to secure the pass- 
ing of the infamous act of Parliament by which 
it became lawful to burn heretics, and then, so 
soon as it became a law, this defenseless victim 
was seized, that the Lollards might know it was 
to be no vain threat, but a terrible engine for 
the suppression of all freedom of speech and 
conscience, and even thought. 

The news of the condemnation of Master 
William Sawtree hastened the departure of our 
friends. The day that the first martyr fire was 
lighted in Smithfield they sailed from the port 
of London, Dame Ermengarde covering her 
eyes lest she should see the sparks and the glare 
of the flames as they slowly floated down with 
the tide toward London Bridge, where the ves- 
sel lay that was to carry them from Church- 
oppressed England. 


In Prague. 


201 


CHAPTER XVI. 

IN PRAGUE. 

HE journey from England to Bohemia four 



hundred years ago was an undertaking 
fraught with considerable danger and difficulty, 
and so it was with a feeling of deep thankful- 
ness that they looked upon the walls and battle- 
ments of Bohemia’s capital, the city of Prague. 

Conrad, of course, had no recollection of his 
birth-place ; but his mother could not restrain 
her tears when they came within sight of the 
gates which she had last passed through in the 
train of Queen Anne, while her father-in-law, 
the English mason, thought of nothing but 
where the Dominican monastery could be in 
which he hoped to find his son. 

Conrad was quite as anxious as his grand- 
father to ascertain what his father’s fate had 
been ; but he could sympathize somewhat in 
his mother’s feelings on this her first return to 
her native city. He wondered where and how 
she would find the friends she had talked of as 
being likely to aid her in their search for her 
husband ; for, although she had heard of these 


202 


Conrad. 


occasionally during the life-time of her mistress, 
since the queen’s death news had come to her 
but rarely. 

They put up at a hostelry near the gate, and 
while his mother and grandfather went to rest 
after the fatigue of their last day’s journey, 
Conrad went out to see something of his na- 
tive city, and listen to scraps of talk falling from 
one and another as they passed. 

It was a curious habit that he had formed at 
Lutterworth ; but by it he had been able to 
gauge pretty accurately the drift of public 
opinion on any topic of public interest. They 
had heard during their journey of the deposi- 
tion of the King of Bohemia from being Empe- 
ror of Germany. He had succeeded his father, 
Charles IV., in the imperial dignity ; but the 
slumbering jealousy of the Teuton States against 
the insulated Sclavonic stranger — Bohemia — 
which, though numbered with them as a federa- 
tion, was not of them either in language, thought, 
or feeling, found expression in the votes of the 
Rhine electors, who took the imperial crown 
from King Wenzel to give it to one of their 
own nationality. 

Of course, Bohemia felt herself insulted in 
the person of her king, who still retained his 
hereditary kingdom ; and, knowing this, Conrad 


203 


In Prague. 

soon began to understand how it was that in 
all the parties of students he met, a Bohemian 
was rarely to be seen conversing with a Ger- 
man. The University of Prague was one of the 
most renowned in Europe, and drew thousands 
of young men to its halls of learning, especially 
from the neighboring German States. Germans, 
Poles, and Bohemians formed the majority of the 
students, though there were a few French and 
English ; and hitherto they had lived together 
harmoniously enough. 

But the deposition of King Wenzel seemed 
to have roused in the breasts of both German 
and Bohemian students the same conflicting 
passions that agitated their nations. The Ger- 
mans were now singing songs of triumph at 
the deposition of the Bohemian king from the 
imperial throne, while the insulted Bohemians 
vented their wrath and indignation against their 
stolid neighbors on every occasion that pre- 
sented itself. 

As Conrad wandered through the streets, 
gazing at the splendid palaces, and loitered on 
the bridge, watching the water flowing through 
its arches as he rested against the parapet, he 
heard more than one party of students men- 
tion a name that seemed to be the center of 
conflicting opinions in Prague just now. John 


204 


Conrad. 


Huss, one of the university preachers, seemed 
to be as popular among the Bohemian students 
as King Wenzel himself, and equally unpopu- 
lar among their German companions. Conrad 
felt curious to know something of this strange 
popularity and dislike, but he resolved to wait 
until he had found his old friend, Master Je- 
rome Faulfisch, who could, doubtless, tell him 
all about it. 

Meanwhile he and his grandfather went in 
search of the Dominican monastery, where his 
father had first been taken ; while Dame Ermen- 
garde set about finding a suitable abode, for to 
live at the hostelry beyond a few days was quite 
out of the question. Like every one else who 
has left a city for some years, she found so 
many changes had taken place during her ab- 
sence that she felt almost a stranger where she 
had previously been familiar with every house 
in the neighborhood and had had many friends 
among the citizens. In nothing was this more 
marked than in the question of house-rent, 
which had increased to almost double, so that 
Dame Ermengarde soon became convinced that 
she must relinquish the idea of living near her 
former home, in the neighborhood of the palace, 
and, of course, the most aristocratic portion of 
Prague, and retreat to one of the outlying dis- 


In Prague . 205 

tricts, near one of the gates, where rents were 
sure to be cheaper. 

Trueman had wished to live somewhere near 
the Dominican monastery, for he had taken up 
the idea that his son was still alive and con- 
cealed within its walls ; but Conrad, wishing to 
please his mother in their choice of a home, 
had favored the idea of living in the neighbor- 
hood of the palace — more especially since he 
had heard that John Huss was confessor to 
Queen Sophia, and court preacher, too. 

But, of course, as their united means, added 
to what he might earn as a teacher, would still 
be but limited, he saw the wisdom of following 
his grandfathers plan now, and so a house was 
taken, commanding a view of the gate of the 
Dominican monastery. Grim and gaunt rose 
the massive pile of buildings, with their grated 
loop-hole windows and iron-staunchioned doors, 
and hardly less grim-looking were the black- 
robed friars as they crept in and out of the nar- 
row door-way, all day long coming and going 
with silent, death-like tread, and yet with such 
ceaseless energy. These followers of Dominic 
de Guzman were all powerful here, as every- 
where else, and still followed pre-eminently the 
work laid down for them by their founder — the 
extirpation of heresy. No craft, no guile, no 


20 6 


Conrad. 


wickedness, was too great for them if heresy 
was to be detected or checked ; and if one of 
these clever friars had been told that a simple 
old Englishman had set himself the task of 
outwitting them in some of their plans, they 
would certainly have deemed him a lunatic. 

But that was just what old Trueman had set 
himself to do, and he began his work the very 
day they arrived at their new home. In por- 
tioning out the house the old man chose a room 
for himself where he could sit at the window 
and watch the coming and going of every monk 
and every stranger whose business brought 
them to the monastery. To sit and watch 
ceaselessly day after day until he grew to rec- 
ognize some of the brethren as he caught 
glimpses of their faces— this, for the present, 
seemed to be the old man’s plan. 

Conrad went in a different way to work. He 
walked about in the neighborhood of the uni- 
versity, watching every group of students who 
passed him, in the hope of recognizing Jerome 
Faulfisch among them. But, although he heard 
his name mentioned once in connection with 
that of Huss, he did not encounter his old 
friend. 

His timidity prevented him from asking any 
of the students about Faulfisch for some time, 


In Prague. 


207 


but at length he resolved to do so, for his 
mother had failed to trace him among her 
friends ; and so, stationing himself near the 
university, he at last addressed a party of Bo- 
hemians who were rushing toward the Bethle- 
hem Chapel. 

“ Faulfisch — Jerome Faulfisch — why, he is a 
friend of Master John Huss, and will, doubtless, 
be at the Bethlehem Chapel to-day to hear him 
preach. Wilt thou come and hear him, too ?” 

“ Ah, that will I right gladly,” answered Con- 
rad, for he felt curious to hear the man about 
whom there were such conflicting reports, as 
well as anxious to see his friend. It was not 
easy to obtain a seat when it was known that 
Huss was going to preach ; but by the courtesy 
of his student-friends he was accommodated, al- 
though they had to stand themselves. 

Conrad recalled the time when he first looked 
upon the bold, lion-like countenance of Dr. 
Wiclif, with its keen, penetrating gaze, and 
somehow he felt disappointed with the personal 
appearance of Huss. To judge by this he was 
a man neither very bold nor very penetrating 
in intellect, but highly conscientious ; more cau- 
tious than quick in adopting new views of 
truth, and yet, withal, firm in his attachments 
when once made. 


208 


Conrad. 


It was not to be expected that Conrad should 
think the preaching of Huss equal to his great 
Master Wiclif, but he could not wonder at the 
city going half mad about her wonderful preach- 
er ; for, truly, the discourse of Huss was wonder- 
ful in those days — wonderful for its eloquence 
and clearness, and, also, for the boldness with 
which he denounced the sins of clergy and 
people alike. He spared neither bishops nor 
courtiers, but lashed their sins with an unspar- 
ing hand. 

“ He practiceth what he doth preach, too,” 
whispered one of Conrad’s friends into his ear. 

“ He is a man of virtuous life, I trow,” said 
Conrad. 

“No one can gainsay it,” replied another. 
“At first he preached against citizens and 
courtiers only — against cheating and taking of 
usury, and luxury and pride ; but he soon learned 
to see that in these things the wickedness of 
the clergy exceeded that of courtiers and citi- 
zens, and so now he doth tell all men that, 
except they repent, they shall all likewise perish. 
This is new and unsavory doctrine for the 
clergy, I trow,” added the student. But before 
Conrad could answer some one else touched him 
upon the shoulder, and, turning, quickly he was 
face to face with Jerome Faulfisch. 


In Prague . 209 

The congregation were dispersing, and the 
party of students had lingered on account of 
Conrad’s lameness, for there was sure to be a 
crush at the doors ; and, thus lingering, Faul- 
fisch had time to confirm an idea that he had 
had the moment he saw Conrad — that he 
had seen the pale, delicate-looking stranger 
before. 

“ Master Faulfisch, I have been looking for 
thee ever since I came to Prague ! ” exclaimed 
Conrad in a tone of delight. 

“ I have been away from Prague for some 
weeks. But call me not Faulfisch, but Jerome,” 
he added, and then, thanking the students for 
their care of him, he led him by a different door 
out into a quiet back street. 

“ Now tell me all about my English friends,” 
said Master Jerome; “how fareth it with Sir 
John Oldcastle ? ” 

“ He is still pursuing the study of arms, and 
hopes to do good service for King Henry, as 
well as to be the faithful servant of oui*Master 
in heaven.” 

“I am greatly rejoiced to hear thee say this. 
And now what hath brought thee to Bohemia 
at this time ? As I wrote thee in my letters, I 
have sought to learn tidings of thy father, but 
cannot hear more than this : he was taken to 


210 


Conrad. 


the Dominican monastery, and hath not since 
been heard of.” 

“ And the Dominicans — what do they say 
about it ? for I have come to Prague on purpose 
to find my father, and will do so if it be possi- 
ble,” said Conrad. 

Jerome shook his head. “ If thou hast ever 
had aught to do with these black friars, thou 
knowest they are more crafty than any of their 
brethren, if such a thing be possible. I have 
seen the prior and many of the brethren upon 
this business, but all declare they know naught 
of such a person ever having come to their holy 
house, and I doubt not they will tell thee the 
same, giving thee fair promises to make search 
concerning the business.” 

“Nay, but I shall make my inquiries outside 
first, before applying to the prior. Did I tell 
thee I had found my father’s father, and that he 
had come to Prague with us to find his son ? ” 

“ Nay, I had not heard it ; but ’tis well thou 
hast t(fld me, for he and thou must alike be 
cautious if his name be Trueman.” 

“ And wherefore is there so great need of 
caution?” asked Conrad. 

“ Because many in Prague remember thy 
father’s name to this day — remember him as 
one of the most daring followers of Conrad 


21 1 


In Prague. 

Strickna — after- whom thou art named, I doubt 
not — and Matthias Janovius. These two were 
preachers as popular in their day as Master 
Huss now is, and they complained as loudly 
as he does of the spiritual death and desolation 
every-where prevailing through the corruptions 
of the Church. I was only a boy then, but I 
can remember seeing thy father a short time 
before our hasty flight from Prague, and of the 
exhortation he gave us to hold fast by the truth, 
though we yielded our lives in its defense. The 
persecution of Janovius and his followers had 
already commenced, for the clergy were special- 
ly indignant at his teaching that the sacrament 
ought to be administered in both kinds ; and 
when, at length, he made use of the favor in 
which he was held by the Emperor Charles, our 
king, to urge him to call a general council for 
the reformation of the Church, their fury knew 
no bounds. The emperor was prevailed upon 
to banish Janovius, and many, like my father, 
left Bohemia with him. Others, hoping they 
and their opinions might be forgotten or over- 
looked, remained behind, and upon them the 
full fury of the storm burst. They were robbed, 
beaten, drowned in the river, and at last burned 
as evil heretics. Thy father, doubtless, thought 
to escape through the favor in which thy mother 


212 


Conrad. 


was held by the Princess Anne, who herself 
favored these doctrines, as thou hast doubtless 
heard ; and it was through this, I trow, that he 
was so secretly carried away.” 

“ Then my namesake, Conrad Strickna, was 
somewhat like Dr. Wiclif in his teaching.” 

“ It may be that he had seen some of Wic- 
lif ’s writings, and learned to discern the truth 
from them, even as Master Huss hath done 
since. Thou dost remember thy work of copy- 
ing and translating, Conrad ? ” 

“ Ah, they were happy days at Lutterworth ! ” 
exclaimed Conrad, with something of a sigh ; 
“ I would that I had profited more by them.” 

“ Thou wilt be glad to hear that thy work in 
those days was not in vain. I brought all the 
writings thou didst help me to pack safely here 
to Prague, and meeting with Master Huss, who 
was even then earnestly seeking for more en- 
lightenment than the Church could give, I be- 
sought him to read them, and now — shall I tell 
thee ? — Huss will carry on the work Wiclif hath 
begun ! ” 


John Huss. 


21 3 


CHAPTER XVII. 

JOHN HUSS. 

HE friendship of Jerome and Conrad in- 



creased daily, and the latter was found to 
be a most valuable coadjutor in the work of 
disseminating the purer truths of the Gospel 
which he and Huss had set themselves to ac- 
complish — the one by preaching and teaching, 
both at court and in the university, and the 
other by spreading the bold and convincing 
writings of Dr. Wiclif among all classes in Bo- 
hemia. Conrad’s old work of translating the 
English writings of Wiclif into Bohemian was 
again taken up, while copies of his Latin treat- 
ises were being multiplied by many of the stu- 
dents in the university. 

But although Conrad’s time and energy were 
thus fully occupied, he by no means neglected 
the errand which had brought him and his 
grandfather to Bohemia. By the advice of Je- 
rome the old man had consented to abandon his 
name for the present, and he was known among 
their friends as Mason, or the mason — no one 
seemed sure about which he should of right be 


214 


Conrad. 


called ; bat few of them knew the secret of his 
real name, or why he had left England. The 
old man was very silent upon the subject of his 
hopes and fears — the recovery of his long-lost 
son — and no one but Conrad and his mother 
understood why it was that he sat day after 
day alone at the window, silently watching the 
monastery gate opposite. 

After a few months of this silent watching 
he took the bolder step of standing at the door, 
and often giving alms to one and another of 
the black-robed brotherhood; but it might also 
be remembered that he peered closely and cu- 
riously under every cowl, while he transferred 
the coin from his own pouch to the outstretched 
hand. 

After this had gone on for some time he 
prevailed upon Dame Ermengarde to provide 
more food every day than they could possibly 
consume themselves, and, with this for an ex- 
cuse, he often got one of the friars to come in 
and chat with him, for he had learned some- 
thing of the Bohemian tongue by this time. 

All this, going on close to the monastery gate, 
could not escape the notice of the superior, 
and, as he so frequently gave alms, a notion 
soon got afloat among the brethren that the 
strange old Englishman was immensely rich, 


John Huss. 


215 


and must be pleased and patronized according- 
ly, for that his wealth must be left to their 
monastery was a foregone conclusion. 

To gain admission to the chapel, or even 
some of the private services of the friars, was a 
matter of small difficulty after this ; and Dame 
Ermengarde herself was almost deceived by 
the old man’s seeming fondness for the black 
fria r s. 

“ Conrad, thou knowest I am as anxious as 
thou art to find thy father, and I have made 
many inquiries, even sending a message to King 
Wenzel himself, beseeching him for the love he 
bore his sister, my mistress, to make search for 
my husband, and — ” 

“ Nay, my mother ; but the king cannot help 
us. I trow,” interrupted Conrad. 

“ He can do more than thy grandfather, for 
he is bewitched by these black friars,” replied 
Dame Ermengarde angrily ; and then, in a more 
anxious tone, she said, “ I have heard that monks 
and friars do sometimes in their grasping after 
unknown things learn how to commune with 
Satan, who soon becomes their master by im- 
parting to them secrets by which they can 
gain the mastery over other men, even robbing 
them of their senses, or making them believe 
and love what they aforetime hated ; and this, 
14 


21 6 


Conrad. 


I fear, is now being worked upon thy poor grand- 
father.” 

Conrad looked alarmed, for Dame Ermen- 
garde had only expressed the general belief of 
that age, and even the best and most enlightened 
men were not free from this dread of witchcraft. 

“ Can it be that these friars have discovered 
our secret, and learned who we are by means of 
this black art — this alchemy, as some call it?” 
exclaimed Conrad ; and he resolved to watch his 
grandfather, and, if possible, draw him from his all- 
absorbing interest in these black friars. Noth- 
ing was to be gained in the way of clearing up 
the mystery that surrounded his father’s fate by 
that means, he felt sure, and he blamed himself 
now for not trying to convince his grandfather 
of the futility of this plan before. The fact was 
that as Conrad’s hopes diminished after each vain 
effort he had made, he felt thankful that the old 
man had taken up a plan of action that involved 
a long, slow, patient watch ; for, while he was 
watching he was hoping, and he would not have 
the old man robbed of his dearly cherished 
hopes, or know the pain and suffering he often 
endured at the failure of plan after plan. Such 
pain and such failure would bring sickness and 
death to his grandfather he felt sure ; for he had 
no other object in life, nothing to think of in 


John Huss . 


217 


the way of occupation, but this patient, dogged, 
persistent watching of the monastery and its 
inmates. 

It was, therefore, no easy matter for Conrad 
even to try and persuade his grandfather to give 
up this occupation, and with it his dearly cher- 
ished plans ; but he thought it to be his duty 
now, and, therefore, he would not shrink from it 
much longer. 

An opportunity soon offered, for the old man 
came indoors one day with the news that there 
had been a fight on the bridge between some 
German and Bohemian students. 

“ Who told thee ? ” asked Conrad, looking up 
from his work of writing. 

“ The friars barely escaped receiving some of 
the blows as they passed,” answered the old 
man. 

“ I would not believe any tale that a friar 
chose to tell. I wish I could go and find out 
the truth of this for myself, but I have prom- 
ised Master Huss he shall have this treatise to- 
night ; but thou couldst go,” he added, looking 
at his grandfather. 

But he shook his head. “ I cannot leave my 
post for twenty fights,” he said, preparing to 
leave the room as he spoke. But Conrad laid 
his hand on his arm and detained him. 


21 8 


Conrad. 


“I — I am afraid thou art under some evil 
spell, grandfather,” said Conrad tenderly. 

The old man laughed half-derisively, half* 
angrily. “ Thou dost fear I am bewitched ? 
Nay, nay ; I am bewitching them, Conrad. They 
think me a foolish, crazy old man, gone mad 
about mason’s work and the cunning contriving 
of buildings. Perhaps they think they are be- 
witching me ; but I am learning, Conrad — learn- 
ing all about the mason work in the monastery. 
They show me a bit now and a bit then, first 
one and then the other, sometimes a cell or a 
corridor, then a pointed arch and a stair-case 
cut of solid stone ; and I talk of the stone until 
they think me one, too ; but I am learning, Con- 
rad — I am learning.” 

“ But what art thou learning ? ” asked his 
grandson as a new fear darted across his mind, 
for, if not bewitched, the constant thinking of 
this one subject had certainly turned his brain, 
and he was in very truth going mad, as he wished 
the friars to believe. 

“ Learning ? ” repeated the old man. “ What 
is it I want to learn, but to find my way in 
and out of the monastery, through all its wind- 
ing passages and stair-ways, until I can go 
without fear and find my boy — my long-lost 


son. 


John Hnss. 


Conrad looked his surprise at the wild scheme 
his grandfather had proposed, and was more than 
ever concerned about his mental condition, but 
he saw that it would be useless to say any thing 
about this now. He resolved, however, to keep 
his grandfather and his movements more in his 
mind than he had done of late, and then, finding 
he could not settle to his work again, he went 
out to ascertain the cause of the students’ fight 
on the bridge. 

On his way he met his friend Jerome, and 
asked him what it all meant — whether the dis- 
turbance was serious, or merely a slight brawl. 

Jerome shook his head sadly. “It is the 
first fight outside the university walls, but I 
greatly fear it will not be the last. Hast thou 
not heard the news that alT Prague is ringing 
with just now ? ” 

Conrad shook his head. “ I have not been 
out for more than a week,” he said. 

“ And no one hath told thee of the arch- 
bishop’s threat — that any who dare to teach the 
doctrines of Wiclif shall die the death of here- 
tics, at the stake? Master Huss knowetb well 
enough that it is against him this threat is 
issued, for, although he began by thinking 
Wiclif a heretic, he hath learned from his writ- 
ings to love the truth he taught, and hath 


2^0 


Conrad. 


began to teach the same here in Prague, which 
hath, of course, alarmed the archbishop ; and 
now, to widen the breach, the German professors 
of the university 1 are openly taking sides with 
the archbishop as orthodox against heretics, 
while the Bohemians, remembering that it was 
the German episcopal votes that deprived King 
Wenzel of his imperial crown, have taken the 
side of Master Huss and freedom of conscience, 
and, from the sullen jealousy that has so long 
existed between the two, this act of the arch- 
bishop hath evolved open strife, and what may 
follow none can tell.” 

It was plain that Master Jerome thought 
the matter a serious one, but Conrad did not 
understand it sufficiently to share his anxieties. 
“Surely the courtcil now sitting at Pisa will 
amend all this,” he said hopefully. 

“ Nay, I know not what to think. As thou 
knowest, the council hath deposed both the 
rival popes, and Master Huss preached yes- 
terday against their arrogance, calling them 
evil men who stirred up strife and schism ; but 
the archbishop still adheres to Gregory, and 
hath appealed to the king to-day to stop our 
bold preacher ; but the king only shook his 
head and smiled as he answered, * So long as 
Master Huss preached against us of the world 


John Hass. 


221 


you rejoiced, and declared that the Spirit of God 
spoke in him.’ Now it is your turn.” 

Conrad clapped his hands in triumph. 
“Master Huss hath nothing to fear, then, 
from the archbishop’s threats since the king 
taketh sides with him ; wherefore, then, art thou 
so anxious, Master Jerome ? ” 

“Dost thou not see, Conrad, that Huss is 
making foes with a power greater than that 
possessed by any king ? Just now the long- 
talked-of council is sitting at Pisa, and the king 
with Huss hath taken sides with the council 
against the deposed popes ; but what it may be 
when another pope is chosen none can tell.” 

“Nay, but will not the council amend the 
corruptions of the Church, and bid her teach 
the Gospel instead of the fables and lying in- 
ventions preached by the monks ? ” 

“ Many hope it will be so, but I know not what 
to think,” answered Jerome ; and then, after 
some further conversation, the friends parted, 
and Conrad returned home to tell his mother 
what he had heard concerning these public 
affairs, and what he feared for his grandfather. 

The next day there was another fight with 
the students, and these grew so frequent during 
the next few months that the university was in 
a state of feud, and was the constant scene of 


222 


Conrad. 


polemical strife scarcely less disgraceful than 
the faction fights in the street. It was Ger- 
man against Bohemian, Churchman against 
Wiclifite — a political and religious warfare — 
until at last the Germans, to the number of 
thirty thousand, with their professors, aban- 
doned the university and the city, betaking 
themselves to Leipsic. 

The citizens felt the loss of their German 
customers severely, but Huss did not lose his 
popularity. He became rector of the univer- 
sity, and preached more boldly than ever the 
doctrines of Wiclif ; and Conrad grew confident 
that the sad forebodings of Jerome were with- 
out the least foundation. 

“ England hath cast from her this offer of 
the Gospel, but Bohemia is receiving it gladly,” 
he said one day when Jerome called. 

“ The people of Bohemia would gladly have 
received the teaching of Strickna and Janovius, 
as they now do that of Huss ; but the Church 
silenced them and persecuted their followers, as 
they will us by and by if they have but the 
power. Hast thou had news from England of 
late?” 

“ I had a letter from Dame Margery Gilpin, 
bearing sad tidings of the persecution against 
the Lollards. Master Sawtree’s martyrdom was 


yohn Huss. 


223 


the first for this truth of God — this good news 
he hath sent to the world — that the Lord Jesus 
hath borne our sins and carried our sorrows ; 
that he is our Saviour, and not our good works, 
or penances, or wealth.” 

“ And the people of England — did they not 
receive these glad tidings that would set them 
free from the cruel slavery of the Church ? ” 
asked Jerome. 

“ Yea, truly ; and many of them are now suf- 
fering imprisonment and the loss of all things, 
while all live in fear and dread of what may 
come upon them, reading God’s word only in 
secret, and hiding it as though it were an evil 
thing ; while others are called upon to prove 
their love of this truth by dying a most cruel 
and shameful death. Ah ! say not th z people of 
England refused the Gospel ; but her king, in 
fear of the Church, hath rejected it, and the 
Church is binding her galling yoke more fast 
upon him and his people.” 

Conrad spoke passionately, for the remem- 
brance of Dame Margery’s letter, with its ac- 
count of how many of their friends had suffered 
and were suffering, was fresh in his memory. 

“And thou canst tell me this of England, 
and what the Church is doing there, and yet 
hope for Bohemia? ” exclaimed Jerome. 


224 


Conrad. 


“ King Wenzel hath taken sides with Master 
Huss, and the great council hath been called at 
last that is to reform the Church ; and it may 
be that the council will decree that the teach- 
ing of Dr. Wiclif was not heresy, but the very 
truth of God, and command that the Church 
shall teach the same, and that all bishops and 
priests shall live pure and blameless lives like 
our godly Master Huss and Dr. Wiclif.” 

But Jerome shook his head “Many have 
hoped for this, but I cannot. How can a clean 
thing come out of an unclean ? The Church is 
wholly corrupt, I fear, and will not be amended 
by the council except as it may receive the 
pope it shall choose. This done, it will break 
up, and the cries of God’s people will still go 
up to his throne : Lord, how long wilt thou suf- 
fer this ? O Lord, how long ? ” 

But Conrad hoped more from the Council of 
Pisa than this, and was ready to laugh at his 
friend for his fears, believing that in Bohemia, 
at least, the Gospel would be triumphant, and 
from her it would spread to all lands, until, sanc- 
tioned and taught by those who now so bitter- 
ly opposed it, the reformation would at last come 
for which the world had so long watched and 
waited in vain. 


The Monastery of the Black Friars . 225 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


THE MONASTERY OF THE BLACK FRIARS. 

SILENCE almost as of death brooded 



T~\. over the capital of Bohemia, the famous 
city of Prague ; and a traveler approaching it by 
way of the White Mountain, just outside the 
city gates, wondered what dreadful calamity 
could have befallen, for not a matin bell had 
been heard to ring that morning, and the few 
citizens who passed in and out seemed to creep 
along as if weighed down with a calamity too 
heavy to be borne. 

The traveler himself was not too elate, for it 
was our old friend Conrad, returning from a 
visit to England, and he brought with him the 
sad news that the persecution against the Lol- 
lards raged more fiercely than ever ; so that the 
silence and gloom that seemed to have settled 
down upon his native city increased his de- 
pression still more. He hastened home through 
the silent, almost deserted streets, and it was a 
relief to him when his mother opened the door 
and clasped him in her arms. The next min- 
ute his grandfather came forward, looking well 


226 


Conrad. 


and cheerful, so that there was no need to ask 
how he fared ; indeed, the old man followed 
Conrad when he went up to his own room, as- 
suring him that he never felt better in his life. 
Conrad felt puzzled at his grandfathers manner, 
and again there came a doubt of his sanity ; but 
this was quickly dispelled when, the door being 
closed, he came close to him and whispered, 
“ Canst thou bear to hear good news, Conrad ? ” 

“ Good news ! my mother saith there is 
naught but evil tidings in Prague.” 

“ Dame Ermengarde doth not know all that 
is being done in Prague ; she is but a woman, 
and, therefore, not to be trusted.” 

Conrad felt rather angry at this implied slight 
of his mother, but his grandfather seemed so 
impatient to tell his news that Conrad would 
not stop to argue the point just now ; but he 
did not pay much heed to the old man’s talk of 
the wonderful mason’s work he had been doing 
at the monastery, until he said, “ And I have 
seen him, Conrad ! ” 

“ Seen who ? Master Huss, my master ? ” 

“ Nay, nay, I have seen my son — my son 
Ned — thy father ! ” 

Conrad forgot his lameness, and actually 
sprang from his seat and tottered to his grand- 
father’s side without crutches. 


The Monastery of the Black Friars. 227 

“ Tell me that again ! O tell me it is true, 
and that my father is alive ! ” he gasped, hold- 
ing by the old man’s arm. 

“ Hush, hush ! I would not have thy mother 
hear this ; no, not if it would take the interdict 
from the city,” said the mason, and he led Con- 
rad back to his seat and implored him to be 
calm. “ Thou art worse than I was when I saw 
him, though I had to lean against the wall or 
I should have fallen.” 

“ Where didst thou see him ? ” asked Conrad. 

“ Where could I but in the monastery, where 
he is kept a close prisoner ? I have undertaken 
to oversee some mason work, and, to my great 
joy, one of those set to carry the rubbish away 
was my boy.” 

“ And he knew thee, or didst thou tell him 
thou wert his father ? ” 

“ Nay, I told him I was a friend, for what had 
I ever done to deserve the name of father ? ” and 
the old man sighed. “ I told him I had known 
him when he was in the world, and would fain 
help him now ; but at first he shook his head, 
thinking I was his enemy. At last my heart 
would speak, and when we were alone I snatched 
the shovel out of his hand, that he was clear- 
ing the rubbish away with, and, throwing my 
arms round his neck, I said, ‘ O Ned. my boy, 


228 


Conrad. 


my boy, I have found you at last ! ’ but he was 
so weak from being shut up there so long that 
he fainted in my arms. O, Conrad, they have 
well-nigh killed him, and I doubt whether any 
but his father would have known him again ; 
and I know not now whether he remembers me, 
or that he is not, as ye deemed me, mad — mad 
from the long silence in which he hath lived ; ” 
and the poor old man paced up and down the 
room in such strong excitement that Conrad 
began to fear whether the whole story was not 
a wild fancy after all, and that his grandfather’s 
brain had succumbed to the long strain of con- 
stantly dwelling on one idea. He resolved, 
therefore, not to hope too much from what he 
had just heard, but to talk to his grandfather on 
other subjects before returning to this again. 
His mother, calling at this moment, enabled him 
to follow this resolution, and he willingly prom- 
ised not to divulge his grandfather’s secret to 
any one at present. 

“ Thy grandfather hath told thee all the news, 
I trow,” said Dame Ermengarde rather dis- 
contentedly. 

For a moment Conrad looked confused, until 
he suddenly remembered that his grandfather 
had told him the startling news that the city 
was under an interdict, and he exclaimed, “ I 


The Monastery of the Black Friars. 229 

cannot understand what I have heard ; surely 
the city is not under the ban of the Church ! ” 
But Dame Ermengarde tremblingly con- 
firmed the news. “ There have been no funerals, 
no baptisms, no marriages, no matin or vesper 
services, for more than a week. It is awful to 
dwell in a city of silence, without even a con- 
vent bell to ring the sacred hours, or a church 
door to be opened. Even the street noises 
seem sad and subdued now, and no one leaves 
the house unless necessarily.” 

“ But wherefore is all this ? ” asked Conrad. 

“ Hast thou not heard ? Master Jerome sent 
thee a letter by a merchant journeying to Lon- 
don, in which — ” 

“ The letter was brought with all speed and 
safety, and told of the venders of indulgences 
coming to Prague with a special bull from the 
pope authorizing the sale of these licenses for 
sin, and how Jerome had publicly burned the 
same under the gallows.” 

u Ah ! ’twas a right brave thing to do, and 
the people did their work well afterward, for they 
drove the sin-mongers out of Prague at last,” 
interrupted his grandfather. 

“ But I was sore afraid, Conrad — more afraid 
than when the archbishop’s messenger came 
here and carried off all the works of Dr. Wiclif 


230 


Conrad. 


thou hadst copied, for the rioters stormed the 
court-house at last, when the magistrate would 
fain protect the indulgence merchants.” 

“And how fareth it with the three embas- 
sadors who have journeyed to Rome to answer 
the citation sent to Master Huss ? Have they 
returned ? ” 

“ Nay ; it is for this very thing the city now 
lieth under an interdict, I trow,” replied Dame 
Ermengarde, with a sigh. 

“ It is for Master Huss and his teaching the 
doctrines of Dr. Wiclif,” repeated Conrad. 

“Ah ! I would that I had never heard the word 
‘heresy’ or the name of Wiclif!” exclaimed 
Dame Ermengarde. “ Our great preacher, Mas- 
ter Huss, hath been publicly excommunicated, 
and obliged to leave the city. Thou didst think 
that when there was a council of the Church 
the reformation would begin ; but ’tis said that 
the present pope hath lived and doth live a more 
evil life than any that went before him, and 
careth nothing for the Church, except how he 
may enrich himself and persecute all accused 
of heresy,” and the lady heaved a deep sigh. 

Conrad could say little to comfort his mother, 
for surely the future looked dark, indeed, for 
those who, no longer satisfied with the supersti- 
tions and corruptions of the Church of Rome, 


The Monastery of the Black Friars. 23 1 

had sought in the purer doctrines taught by 
Wiclif and Huss that light and knowledge by 
which God was revealed as the Lord, gracious 
and merciful, who would not give his glory to 
another, even the most exalted saint, but had 
given his Son to be the one Mediator between 
God and man — the one perfect sacrifice — by 
which he sought to reconcile the world to him- 
self. Believing these truths of the Gospel, how 
could they join in saint and image worship, or 
trust in the mass as a sacrifice for sin, to be re- 
peated each time the words of consecration were 
uttered by the priest over the bread and wine ? 

Huss had begun to follow the teaching of his 
predecessor, Matthias Janovius, by giving to all 
his communicants the cup in the sacrament, 
which, of course, struck at the root of transub- 
stantiation, and the teachings of those who with 
the authority of the Church declared that after 
the words of blessing the bread is turned into 
the very body, bones, blood, and divinity of the 
Lord Jesus Christ ; and about this, of course, 
there were the low mutterings of a coming storm. 

It soon came out, too, that Dame Ermengard'e 
had another cause of sorrow — had had another 
disappointment. A distant relative of her family 
had lately been appointed as chamberlain to 
King Wenzel, and she, having ascertained that 
15 


232 


Conrad. 


he, like most of the court, was a follower of Huss, 
paid him a visit, and besought him to inter- 
cede with the king, that some further inquiries 
might be made concerning her husband’s fate. 
Zisca had promised to do this, but nothing had 
come of it yet; for the king already had enough 
on his hands, and was half-afraid of protecting 
Huss for fear of giving mortal offense to the 
court of Rome. He was glad that Huss had 
withdrawn from the city, and was too anxious 
for the interdict to be removed to inquire too 
closely into the mystery of a man’s disappear- 
ance thirty years before. So Dame Ermengarde’s 
newly-raised hopes were again disappointed, and 
at present Conrad could not tell her -of his 
grandfather’s secret, for he could hardly believe 
in its truth himself. 

It was well, perhaps, that he could not realize 
this all at once, or his impatience to see his 
father might have tempted him to some rash 
deed that would have frustrated all his grand- 
father was trying to accomplish. The old 
man had assumed the entire supervision of the 
work going on inside the monastery ; and to 
secure the services of one who was a thorough 
master of his work, and yet not only gave his 
services free of cost, but was humored and 
pleased that they were accepted, was a stroke 


The Monastery of the Black Friars. 233 

of policy that the superior prided himself upon 
accomplishing ; so he had free access to the in- 
terior, could employ whom he pleased to assist 
those who came with him to do the skilled 
labor, and enjoyed an amount of freedom in his 
intercourse with the brethren rarely accorded 
to any stranger. 

That he should keep the silent, patient, hard- 
working lay brother Sebastian near him excited 
no comment from the rest of the brethren ; for, 
in spite of his reticence, he was a favorite with 
every body except the superior and a few of the 
older monks, who always shunned him, set him 
the hardest and most menial tasks, but other- 
wise never interfered with him. 

Brother Sebastian never went outside the 
monastery gates, the brethren said when they 
were asked about this, and at the mention of this 
fact he looked up and seemed to show some 
interest in what was being said, so that his 
father resolved to try this avenue of communi- 
cation with him, since all others seemed closed, 
and he had no recollection of their first inter- 
view. 

“Thou wouldst like to see the world out- 
side the gates,” he said when they were left to 
themselves. 

The poor drudge nodded. “ I would I could 


234 


Conrad. 


see Master Janovius,” he replied in a low, sepul- 
chral voice, and looking round cautiously as he 
spoke. 

His father almost trembled with hope and 
anxiety as he said, “ Thou dost know Master 
Janovius, I trow.” 

Again came the assenting nod, and some- 
thing like brightness shone for a moment in 
the dulled eyes. “ I forget every thing he 
taught us — every thing but this, Jesus died for 
sinners.” 

“Thou wilt not be able to see Master Ja- 
novius, I trow ; but I will bring thee words he 
hath writ, an thou would like to see them.” 

Again came the gleam of intelligence into 
the dulled eyes as he murmured, “ I forget — 
forget every thing.” 

As soon as the old man went home he begged 
Conrad to obtain something written by Janovius, 
if it were possible, and this request did at last 
convince him that his grandfather was not rest- 
ing his hopes merely on a wild notion as he 
supposed. He soon obtained what the old man 
asked for ; it was a simple letter, written in de- 
fense of giving the wine in the sacrament to 
all communicants ; and Conrad speedily made a 
copy of it on a slip of parchment, that could be 
rolled up and easily concealed. 


The Monastery of the Black Friars. 235 

To describe Brother Sebastian’s joy when he 
received this would be impossible. He kissed 
it as soon as he had read the first lines, and 
then he threw his arms around his father’s 
neck and kissed him. “ I know — I know ! I re- 
member all now,” he said. 

“ Dost thou know me, Ned ? know thy old 
father from London city?” 

But at this question Brother Sebastian started 
back. u My father,” he repeated ; “ nay, nay, 
talk not of him ; I have angered him, and he will 
never forgive me.” 

“ He was a harsh, stern man, then, Ned ; he 
knew naught of mercy and little of love in 
those days.” 

The old man spoke in English now, and at 
the sound of the old familiar words the monk- 
drudge started as though he had been stung. 
“ Who — who art thou ? ” he said, speaking in 
the same language, his dull eyes gleaming with 
unwonted light ; “ who art thou, to speak to me 
of my father and call him harsh ? I tell thee I 
left him. I was willful and disobedient. Flow 
sayest thou my father was harsh ? ” 

It pleased the old man to hear his son speak 
in this way, and yet it seemed that now he 
had hopelessly offended him, for during the 
rest of that day he studiously obeyed every 


236 


Conrad. 


command that was given him, but carefully 
avoided any further communication. 

The next day, however, he gave signs of a 
further return of memory ; for as soon as he 
and his father were left alone he said, “ I have 
read the wonderful words of Master Janovius, 
and thou mayest tell him I remember now — - 
remember all he told us last week. Dost thou 
know the Princess Anne ? she is soon to be 
Queen of England, they say, and then I shall 
go back with Dame Ermengarde, my wife, in 
the train of the princess ; and, now that I have 
a little son to show my father, surely he will 
forgive me for going beyond seas to seek my 
fortune.” 

“Yes, yes, he will forgive thee, Ned,” said 
the old man, brushing away the tears as he 
spoke. How he restrained the wrath he felt 
against those who had reduced his son to this 
almost imbecile state he did not know ; how he 
could speak smooth, fair words to the superior, 
and give alms of money and food to the gos- 
siping brethren who daily oppressed his son, 
was a puzzle the old man could never solve. 
Only the yearning love he felt for his son, who 
needed his watchfulness and care now more, 
even, than when he was a child, enabled him to 
pass through this trying ordeal without betray- 


The Monastery of the Black Friars. 237 

ing his secret ; for it was still a secret shared 
only with Conrad, for as yet it was deemed un- 
safe to trust even Dame Ermengarde with the 
news that her husband still lived. The times 
were perilous, and enemies were ever on the 
alert. Huss was still absent from Prague, and 
though a traveler named Jacobel brought tid- 
ings that he was preaching in every town and 
village throughout Bohemia the wonderful Gos- 
pel of Jesus Christ in place of the wild legends 
of the monks, still he was regarded as a heretic, 
and the ban of excommunication yet rested 
upon him. 


238 


Conrad. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE LAST FIRST. 

C ONRAD was most anxious to see his fa- 
ther, and waited with eager impatience 
the return of his grandfather each day from the 
monastery. He wanted to make known the 
discovery that had been made, that, through the 
influence of their friends at court, his release 
might be formally demanded. 

But to this proposal the old man would not 
listen for one moment. “ I know these cun- 
ning foxes,” he said. “ Dost thou think they 
would ever let him leave those walls alive after 
all the denials they have given of his being 
there? Nay, nay! I should never see him 
again, and he would never wake to the under- 
standing of things as he is slowly awakening 
now. Dost thou know what he asked me to- 
day?” 

Conrad shook his head. He was wondering 
whether it would not be better to disobey his 
grandfather for once, and let their friends know 
of his discovery. “ I would that I could see my 
father,” he said. 


The Last First. 


239 


“ He hath asked about thee ; about his little 
knave Conrad ; ‘ He is but a weakly babe,’ he 
said to me to-day, and then for the first time I 
noticed that he grew restless, as if he wanted 
to leave his -work and go out.” 

“ And he must — O he must be rescued from 
those walls ! ” said Conrad, glancing across at 
the monastery opposite. 

But the old man shook his head. “ Not yet, 
Conrad, not yet ; it would kill him, or send him 
quite mad, I trow, to bring him into the world 
again as he is. ‘Nay, nay, trust me ; I am wak- 
ing him up slowly ; he doth not comprehend 
aught of the time that hath passed since he 
hath been there, or he would not talk of Jerome 
Faulfisch as a little knave, and thee as a weak- 
ly babe ; and so, to bring him out into this new 
world, as it would be to him, where he would 
not know his own wife or son, would but con- 
fuse his weak mind so that it would never grow 
strong, and he would never know thee, Conrad, 
for his son — would not believe thou wert his 
son, but would take some puling infant to his 
breast, and fondle that for thee.” 

This argument convinced Conrad that his 
grandfather was right in his present plan of 
procedure, but still he could not but feel anx- 
ious, for suppose the superior should suspect 


240 


Conrad. 


their secret, or stop the work of alteration 
going on in the monastery. 

The old man shuddered at the bare possibil- 
ity of such a catastrophe ; but the next moment 
he said, laying his hand on Conrad’s shoulder, 
“ Thou knowest I was but a Lollard in my love 
of liberty when I left England ; but I wanted 
help to find my son more than thou or thy 
friends or the king could give, and I took thy 
word for it that God would not be offended if I 
asked him straight to help me find my boy. 
Thou knowest the Church hath no prayers for 
such need as this, and so I could not but ask 
for myself, and — and, Conrad, I believe he heard 
the poor old mason without even the saints in- 
terfering. It may be — I think it was — some- 
thing that God alone could help in, and since I 
began to pray like that it hath been such a 
comfort and consolation to me, God hath given 
me such peace and patience and courage to 
wait, and the superior and all the brethren have 
such favor toward me, that at last I have found 
my son ; and dost thou think God would show 
him to me just to snatch him away again ? Nay, 
nay ; I trow not. I would not serve my son so, 
and I trow God, who made man, as thou sayest, 
in the image of himself, hath given to fathers 
a heart somewhat like to his own, in that they 


The Last First. 


241 

will not do aught to hurt them except it be for 
their good.” 

Conrad stared in blank amazement at the 
old man’s words. What he said revealed a 
trust and confidence in God such as he had 
heard Mistress Margery and one or two others 
speak of ; but he had looked upon these as es- 
pecially favored — almost saints, according to 
the Church’s ideas — and it never entered his 
head that ordinary mortals, like himself or his 
grandfather, could ever attain to such an ex- 
alted experience. In point of fact, he had rath- 
er looked down upon the honest old mason, 
for he had often confessed that he could not 
understand a good deal of what Dr. Wiclif had 
written, except that he claimed for all men lib- 
erty of soul as well as body ; and so, out of his 
intense love of liberty, he had cast in his lot 
with his followers and been called a Lollard. 

Conrad, however, had gone beyond this. His 
reason and his intellect had been convinced ; he 
longed to see the Church purified of her abuses 
and entirely reformed ; and that Wiclif desired 
more for the individual soul of man than what 
he had already apprehended as the truth in his 
teaching was something rather startling. That 
there was more — that Wiclif and Huss and Je- 
rome, with all their clearness of teaching, could 


242 


Conrad. 


only take the soul, and lead it on through clear- 
er light up to a certain point where God him- 
self must be met if there was to be this clear 
apprehension of God himself — he was now con- 
vinced ; but that his grandfather should attain 
it while he was left far behind was rather puz- 
zling, and somewhat humbling, for he had often 
despised the old man in his heart for not caring 
more about the intellectual differences between 
Wiclif’s teaching and that of the Church, and 
had questioned his right to be called a Lol- 
lard when all he cared about was the liberty it 
preached. Now it seemed that with this one 
idea of liberty — the soul’s right to approach God 
■ — he had pushed his way through all the mists 
and darkness of his old belief that still clung 
to him ; had for himself practically abolished 
saint and image worship, and every superstitious 
fear that could keep him away, and had pene- 
trated into the very presence-chamber of God 
himself. He, Ned Trueman, the old mason, 
who could neither read nor write, and cared 
little for polemical reasoning except as it 
exhibited his (Conrad’s) learning — who never 
thought to teach any body any thing, except it 
might be how to do a little mason-work — he 
ranked side by side with the world’s great 
teachers, Wielif and Huss, and others who had 


The Last First. 


243 


gone before them, who had apprehended and 
tried to teach the same glorious truths that 
these now preached with no uncertain sound. 
Among these stood the humble-minded, honest 
old workman, while he who aspired to be the 
next in rank at least to these great ones — he who 
had labored to master all the learning possible, 
that he might be called the “seraphic doctor” — 
was left far behind. 

All this was revealed to Conrad as he sat 
and mused upon what his grandfather had said. 
It was a very humbling, but a very salutary 
experience ; for, unconsciously, his friends had 
made so much of him, especially his mother and 
grandfather, and had made themselves and their 
individual comfort so entirely subservient to his, 
that it was not surprising he should think him- 
self of somewhat more importance than he was. 

It was well for him, too, perhaps, that his learned 
friends, Jerome and Master Huss, were away 
from Prague, and that he heard occasionally 
how well the work was going on in other parts 
of Bohemia, now that they were driven from the 
capital. 

The interdict had been removed by the pope 
since Huss had departed, and the city had re- 
sumed its usual bustling appearance, while the 
altars in the numerous splendid churches blazed 


244 


Conrad. 


again with lights, and priests robed in “ purple 
and fine linen” with gold-embroidered copes, 
and miters set with precious stones, swung 
censers of incense, and gave thanks to God 
that heresy had been driven from the city, as 
though Huss were the only heretic, and that 
he had so diligently been sowing for years would 
not yet spring up and bear fruit a hundred- 
fold. 

Many of the more prominent friends and fol- 
lowers of Huss had followed his example and 
prudently left the city, for they recalled the time 
when Janovius and his friends were persecuted 
to the very death, and they knew that their king 
was not stronger to protect them against the 
persecutions of the Church than his father, the 
Emperor Charles, had been, for both secretly 
favored these doctrines of the reformers, al- 
though afraid openly to profess them. And so at 
this time Conrad was left very much to his own re- 
flections, with little to disturb him from the outer 
world ; and he now had time to notice what he 
had failed to see before — the gradual change 
that had been at work in his mother and grand- 
father. 

His gentle, weak, dependent mother seemed 
fading away, and yet the worn, grieved look had 
given place to one of peace and rest, and there 


The Last First. 


245 


was less querulousness in her voice, and fewer 
complaints were heard about her disappointment 
at not gaining any tidings of her husband, or her 
own unhappy life. 

Conrad was at a loss to understand this 
change in her for some time ; but one day when 
they had been sitting together Dame Ermen- 
garde suddenly said, “ Thy visit to England, 
Conrad, carried me thither also, and I have been 
living over again in thought much of the time 
I spent there. Thou didst not hear the Arch- 
bishop Arundel preach the funeral sermon of my 
mistress, the good Queen Anne; but he spoke 
some words I have never since forgotten in 
praise of her diligent study of the holy Scriptures. 
She had often enjoined upon us, her attendants, 
the duty of this study, too ; but, as thou know- 
est,- I was ever fearful of offending holy Church 
and my mother ; and so, although I carefully 
kept the queen’s book which she gave me, it 
seemed a fearsome thing to read it until after I 
heard the words of Archbishop Arundel ; though 
it hath sometimes been a sore puzzle to me how 
he could commend my mistress for that which 
he hath sent others to suffer death by burning 
for doing — for this reading the Scriptures is now 
taken as a sign of heresy, I trow.” 

" Yes, Archbishop Arundel hath forbidden it, 


246 Conrad. 

and all who do so are accused of heresy now in 
England.” 

“ Then ’tis well I am not in England,” said 
Dame Ermengarde, with a faint smile, “for I 
would brave being called a heretic even by my 
mother rather than give up reading God’s word. 
Conrad, this is, verily, what the queen, my 
mistress, called it — God’s word ; the word she 
would have all men and women know in their 
hearts concerning him. I have learned to kno .v 
it, miserable, and weak, and undeserving as I am. 
He hath taught me what my husband strove to 
teach me in vain, and what my mistress, also, 
exhorted me to learn. But I was afraid, Conrad, 
in those days — afraid of offending the Church, 
and afraid of dishonoring our family by being 
called a heretic ; but, more than all, afraid of my 
mother, for — ” 

“ Nay, nay ; talk not of my grandame, or 
I shall grow fierce in my hatred of her for what 
she hath made my father suffer. Think, my 
mother; he hath been all these years — ” 

And then he suddenly stopped, for he was 
about to betray his grandfather’s closely guarded 
secret. He could hardly have kept it from his 
mother a short time before, but he had suddenly 
acquired a new respect for his grandfather ; he 
was, doubtless, wiser than himself in this, as in 


T!i£ Last First . 


247 


some other matters, since this had been the 
sacred clue that had led him, through a labyrinth 
of difficulties, straight into the very presence of 
God. 

Dame Ermengarde did not notice Conrad’s 
sudden hesitation, for she herself was deeply 
moved ; but at length she said, • Conrad, if thy 
father were with us now, the first lesson he 
would try to teach thee and me would be to for- 
give my poor old mother, who was such a blind 
servant of a blind Church.” 

“ But, my mother, the blindness was willful ; she 
doth not deserve to be forgiven,” replied Conrad. 

“ Deserve it ! And dost thou think any of 
us ever deserve forgiveness ? Nay, nay, it is 
God’s free gift ; for what have we ever done but 
sin against him ? and yet he forgives us not once 
or twice, but every day. I tell thee, Conrad, no 
one could deserve his wrath more than thy poor, 
weak mother — no one could deserve his mercy 
less ; but the Lord Jesus died to save the weak 
and the undeserving, and he died to redeem me. 
I believe it now — believe the words written in the 
book : he died, the just for the unjust. It can- 
not be that he can be offered again, as the 
Church saith he is in the mass, for he bore the 
sins of the whole world once — carried all the 
dreadful load that kept us away from God quite 
16 


Conrad. 


248 

out of the way, so that through this sacrifice of 
himself for us we may draw near to God, with- 
out any merit or good works of our own to make 
us deserving of his mercy and goodness.” 

“And thou hast learned to know this, my 
mother!” stammered Conrad at last. 

“ Thou dost^hink I have been long in learn- 
ing it; and, truly, I am but an unprofitable serv- 
ant, for I had the book long ere I read it ; and 
when I read it first it was but a wonderful tale 
to me ; I saw not that it was the very word of 
God, sent for me.” 

“ Nay, but, mother, thou hast learned more — ” 
and then, overcome by his emotion, Conrad hast- 
ily left the room. 

“ My grandfather and my mother, too — these 
whom I had despised as being only half Lollards 
— these have passed on before me, and know 
the hidden truth revealed to Dr. Wiclif and Mas- 
ter Huss, and which I thought could only be 
attained by wisdom and learning; while I — I 
am left far behind. I cannot even pray as doth 
my mother, ‘ God be merciful to me a sinner ! * 
for .1 do not feel as I ought even about this.” 

Conrad closed the door of his room, and 
throwing aside his crutches, sank down upon 
the floor, resting his head upon his folded arms 
as he leaned against an old chest. 


The Last First . 


249 


“Will God ever receive me*? Can I ever 
enter his presence, as my grandfather and mother 
have done ? O that I could feel as doth my 
gentle mother — that I am undeserving of any 
favor. But I will — I must — be honest ; I do not, 
cannot, feel this. Nay, since I have returned 
from England I have thought God unkind and 
unjust, because I could not persuade Mistress 
Mary to leave her uncle to the care of Dame 
Gilpin and come with me to Prague. I have 
thought I deserved more than God hath given 
me, and so how can I go to him confessing I am 
unworthy when I feel almost as though God 
were my debtor for doing what I have to help 
Master Huss here in Bohemia. Can it be that 
there is no other way of going to God than going 
empty handed as these, my mother and grand- 
father, have done ? — he craving help because he 
could not help himself, and she praying for 
mercy simply because the Lord Jesus Christ had 
died. But, then, what had she to offer that was 
worthy God's acceptance ? She had refused to 
listen to my father, or to her mistress, good 
Queen Anne ; but I have applied myself to 
learn the truth Dr. Wiclif hath taught, and 
surely in this there is some merit. It must be 4 
some recommendation that a man hath done as 
I have, and even been called a heretic and Lol- 


250 


Conrad. 


lard ; so surely God hath some favor toward me 
for these things.” Pride had suggested this 
latter consideration, and Conrad listened to its 
voice. Surely there was a way to attain the 
peace and rest his grandfather and mother en- 
joyed, less humbling than that by which they 
had gained it — a royal road for the wise and 
learned which he should doubtless discover ere 
long ; and so, trying to dismiss the subject from 
his thoughts for the present, he went in search 
of his grandfather, for it was near the time for 
him to come home from his work at the mon- 
astery. 


At Constance. 


251 


CHAPTER XX. 

AT CONSTANCE. 

T HE Council of Pisa, that had been sum- 
moned to reform the abuses of the 
Church, did little beyond ending the schism 
that had so long rent it into divided factions by- 
deposing both the rival popes and electing an- 
other in their stead. He — Alexander — was a 
man of piety and honesty ; but he did not long 
enjoy the honor that had been conferred upon 
him, and after his death a successor was chosen 
who had been a pirate and a murderer, and who 
still, unrepentant, lived a life of luxury and 
vice that no monarch in Europe equaled. That 
there should be another division, another pope 
declaring himself to be Christ’s vicar upon 
earth, and the pirate pope, John XXIII., to be 
antichrist, was inevitable. But now two others 
claimed to be each the true and only successor 
of St. Peter, in rivalry of John, so that the 
Church was more divided than ever with this 
triple claim upon her allegiance. 

At length the discontented clamoring of all 
Christendom for a general council, not only of 


252 


Conrad. 


bishops and cardinals, but one in which the lai- 
ty could at least be represented by their princes 
and sovereigns, could no longer be ignored, and 
a council, general and ecumenical, was at last 
called to meet in the city of Constance. This 
great council was to be, like the ancient one of 
Nicaea, an assemblage of the whole Church, or, 
at least, the western portion of it, and not to be 
presided over by the pope — for the claims of 
the three rival pontiffs were to be submitted to 
the council, and not only this, but the vital ques- 
tion was to be settled of the supremacy of coun- 
cils over the pope, or of the pope over coun- 
cils. Another question was this heresy that had 
broken out in England and Bohemia. Wiclif 
was dead, but his opinions had taken such deep 
root in the heart of the nation that not even 
fear of the stake could extirpate them. 

There were three notable persons, likewise, to 
be judged by the council, all bearing the name 
of John: Pope John XXIII., John Huss, 
and Jean Petit. The latter had published a 
book justifying in most plain terms a foul and 
treacherous murder. In this vindication he had 
laid down principles subversive of all human 
society, in direct violation of the commandment 
of God, and in opposition to the whole religion 
of Christ. 


At Constance . 


253 


Proof would be adduced of the sovereign 
pontiff, John XXIII., being guilty of every 
known crime — crimes at which the heart shud- 
ders and revolts ; and not only this, but of having 
made a gain of the profligacy of others, render- 
ing it a source of wealth to himself. John Huss, 
of irreproachable life, was to be charged with er- 
roneous belief in transubstantiation, and the ad- 
ministration of the cup to the laity, and the 
united wisdom of Europe was to sit in judg- 
ment on these three men. 

The news that a council had at length been 
summoned sent a thrill of hope and expectancy 
through many hearts in every city of Europe. 
Huss had appealed to a council to judge him, 
but at the same time neither he nor King 
Wenzel felt very confident of a favorable ver- 
dict ; and the Emperor Sigismund, who had 
summoned the council, was appealed to for a 
safe conduct which should guarantee his return 
to Bohemia after the close of the council. 

A nobleman who was strongly attached to 
him was to go with him ; but that Huss himself 
had some misgivings as to the result of the 
proceedings, in spite of the promised safe conduct 
from the emperor and the protection of his 
noble patron, was evident from the fact that, 
just before he left Prague, he sent a letter to a 


254 


Conrad. 


friend, charging him, however, not to open it 
except in case of his death. 

fie also wrote a letter to his flock, exhorting 
them to steadfastness in the truth, and praying 
for grace that he himself might persevere and not 
betray the Gospel by cowardice ; and he begged 
them, also, to pray that he might glorify God by 
martyrdom, or return to Prague with an un- 
blemished conscience, and with more vigor than 
ever extirpate the doctrine of antichrist. Sev- 
eral friends went with him in the train of the 
knight John de Chlum, and among them our 
hero, Conrad, who was to act as scribe or secre- 
tary either to the nobleman or Master ffuss. 

They traveled by slow stages, for the fame of 
Huss had gone before him, and in every town 
where they stopped friends met him with kindly 
words either of encouragement or warning. In 
several towns he held conferences, even, with the 
clergy, parting with them on friendly terms. 

At Nuremberg they found the whole city 
alive with visitors on their way to Constance — 
bishops and abbots, knights and grave burghers ; 
while artisans and peddlers, following in their 
wake, crowded every nook and corner where 
lodgings could be had. Day after day came 
standards and banners emblazoned with the ar- 
morial bearings of princes, of nobles, of knights, 


At Constance. 


255 


of imperial cities, or the silver crosier borne 
before some bishop or abbot. All the town 
turned out to gaze at each illustrious visitor, 
and Master Huss was greeted with hearty cheers 
as he passed through the crowded streets. 

They were met here by the noblemen bearing 
the imperial safe-conduct, which was couched 
in the fullest and most explicit terms. John de 
Chlum, Wenzel de Duba, and Henry de Lazen- 
bach, were charged to keep watch and guard 
over their countrymen, who traveled under the 
special protection of the emperor. 

When Conrad read this missive he dismissed 
every fear concerning the safety of his beloved 
master ; and when they resumed their journey 
he gave himself up to the enjoyment of the scene 
through which they were passing, and of which 
they formed a part. Seated on a mule, whose 
tinkling bells were a fit accompaniment to his 
thoughts, he could watch the ever-increasing 
throng of travelers, all journeying in the same 
direction, through the autumn mists and golden 
sunshine, until at last, when the gates of Con- 
stance itself were reached, it seemed as though 
some vast central fair was about to be held ; 
for from every converging road that met here 
came not only trains of ecclesiastics of every 
order and degree, with princes and embassa- 


256 


Conrad. 


dors, but merchants, peddlers, minstrels, and jug- 
glers, from every nation in Europe, with their 
various attire, habits, and languages. 

Constance presented such a spectacle as no 
other city had ever done since the first general 
council of the Church, held at Nice, and men 
began to hope that something effectual would 
at last be done to allay the heart-burnings and 
schisms, and stop at least some of the numer- 
ous slanders that rent the Church. 

Pope John had already arrived, and by brib- 
ery or flattery was trying to make friends with 
every powerful prince or priest; for he, like John 
Huss, was to be tried by this council, and he 
knew the weight of evidence against him. The 
council was to be opened on the fifth of Novem- 
ber, 1415, and by that time there was gathered 
within its walls all the wisdom of Europe in the 
persons of the doctors of canon and civil law, 
and the representatives of the renowned univer- 
sities, each of whom would send as their cham- 
pion their most learned and distinguished pro- 
fessor. 

The subjects that were to be considered by 
the council were already determined ; but the 
order in which they should be brought forward 
was as yet an open question, and the pope deter- 
mined to profit by this if possible. The vital 


At Constance . 


257 


question of all — the superiority of the council to 
the pope, or of the pope to the council — must be 
0 postponed, and if postponed it might be eluded. 
This would, probably, be the case if some matter 
were taken up in which pope and council were 
agreed ; and what more suitable one could there 
be than the suppression of heresy ? Against 
this they could unite in almost maddening zeal, 
and, moreover, for this they had precedents 
which would go far to establish John as the 
only lawful pope, and, therefore, amenable to 
the council only if heresy were proved against 
him. 

The suppression of heresy had been the first 
care of all councils from the ancient Nicene to 
the recent Pisan ; indeed, this Council of Con- 
stance might be taken as a continuation of that 
of Pisa, and if the council of Pisa were thus tacit- 
ly recognized, Pope John’s title, resting, as it did, 
upon a decree of that council, was irrefragable. 
So the whole craft of the pope and his Italian 
cardinals were bent in this direction ; for if 
the pope rendered the signal service of con- 
demning, or of inducing these heretics to re- 
cant, surely the council would confirm him in 
his title against his two rivals. 

He knew little about the doctrines of Wiclif, 
which Huss was accused of teaching in the uni- 


258 


Conrad. 


versity of Prague and the villages of Bohemia, 
but he knew they were held in detestation by all 
partisans of the Church ; while to the more ig- 
norant they possessed a terror scarcely exceeded, 
if equaled, by that of witchcraft. 

So, quietly, but industriously, the pope set his 
wits and his followers to work, that this ques- 
tion of which Master Huss was the representa- 
tive should be the first to occupy the attention 
of the council. He had no personal ill-will to- 
ward the man he had excommunicated — indeed, 
he received him kindly, for if he could only 
induce him to recant his heretical opinions he 
might become more than a mere pawn in this 
mighty game of chess that was to be played in 
the sight of all Europe. 

Honest, simple-minded Conrad saw his master 
not merely acquitted by the council, but triumph- 
antly convincing the whole of that august body 
of the truth of his doctrines after this very favor- 
able reception of himself by the pope ; and he 
wrote a letter to his mother, bidding her tell 
his grandfather that the long-looked-for, much- 
talked-of reformation was about to commence — 
would be inaugurated by this most wonderful and 
wise council of Constance, who would shortly ac- 
cept Master Huss as the teacher and reformer 
for whom the Church had long been waiting. 


At Constance . 


259 


These hopes, which in his enthusiasm Conrad 
viewed as accomplished facts, were viewed by 
many even here in Constance, and friends 
crowded round him ; while strangers came too, 
in crowds, to hear the man whose name was 
upon every lip. 

John Huss was not the man to shrink in 
base timidity from avowing here what he had 
publicly taught in Prague. The Bishop of Con- 
stance admonished him, but in vain, and at last 
forbade his celebrating mass until the ban of 
excommunication had been formally removed. 

But all at once the bright hopes of friends 
began to dissolve like snow wreaths from the 
Alpine slopes. Two of the most bitter foes of 
Huss, with whom he had been involved in fierce 
controversy — Palecz and Michael de Causis — 
came from Prague to accuse him of teaching 
doctrines not subversive of God’s word, but of 
the Roman hierarchy. Huss had declared 
wicked popes, wicked cardinals, wicked prelates, 
to be utterly without authority, their excom- 
munications void, and their administrations of 
the sacraments only valid by some nice dis- 
tinction. 

These men had resolved from the first to 
leave nothing untried that could secure the con- 
demnation of Huss, and so, shortly after their 


26 o 


Conrad. 


arrival, he was summoned before a consistory 
of the pope and his cardinals. He obeyed, but 
at the same time said that he had come to 
Constance to appear before the council, not a 
consistory of cardinals. The pope, however, 
had his own ends to serve, and thought by fre- 
quent debates and remands he should at length 
induce Huss to recant all his errors. How 
could he, who cared not a pin for religion, un- 
derstand the stern, unswerving conscientious- 
ness of such a man as Huss ? He thought it 
would be easy to convince him of any thing 
after a few wearying trials, with intermissions 
of imprisonment, each more strict, as the trials 
failed to convince him of his folly- in persever- 
ing so obstinately against the manifest wish of 
the pope. 

And so, four weeks after his arrival in Con- 
stance, in utter violation of the terms of his safe- 
conduct, Huss was imprisoned in the bishop’s 
palace. His friends, in dire alarm, now appealed 
and protested against this, but all in vain ; and 
soon afterward he was removed, for greater 
security, to the convent of the black friars. 
Here he was taken very ill, and was attended 
by the pope’s physician. After his recovery he 
spent much of his time in writing, and our old 
friend Conrad was fully employed in copying 


At Constance. 


261 


his works for distribution among his friends. 
But if Huss was resigned to the ditfine will 
in the matter of his release or condemnation, 
his friend, de Chlum, was by no means dis- 
posed to resign him to the will of his enemies ; 
and, finding that the pope, who had succeeded 
in leading the council, could not, or would not, 
order his release, he appealed to the emperor, 
who had just been crowned at Aix la Chapelle, 
and was on his Way to Constance. Sigismund 
was very angry, and threatened that the con- 
vent doors should be broken open by force if 
the pope and cardinals did not release the man 
who was under his special protection. But his 
anger and his threats were alike unheeded, and 
when he reached Constance a short time after 
he not only ignored the man he had promised 
to protect, but was induced to abandon him 
altogether — to leave him wholly to the mercy of 
his foes ; and what that mercy was likely to be 
he knew well enough, for Huss was now re- 
moved from the Dominican convent to still 
closer imprisonment. 

A missive arrived from Prague, demanding 
in strong terms the liberty of Huss ; but the 
emperor had found that the tide of feeling in 
the council was too strong against him for any 
hope of his being able to stem it, and he had 


262 


Conrad. 


staked his fame, his influence, and his popu- 
larity on the assembling of this council ; and, 
therefore, Huss must be sacrificed, if need be, 
or the council might dissolve without accom- 
plishing any thing. Besides, was it not a doc- 
trine received without question, that no promise, 
no oath, was binding if made to a heretic ? So 
demands, appeals, expostulations, were alike 
useless. The council met in solemn conclave 
and talked over the crimes of Pope John, and 
afterward amused themselves with jousts and 
tournaments, while John Huss lay fettered in a 
dungeon of the castle of Gotleben. 

The pope at length, finding that the emperor 
had taken the lead of the council out of his 
hands, and that he was likely to be condemned 
for his numerous crimes, secretly left the city, 
and from Shaffhausen sent complaints and 
hurled defiances at the council which had as- 
serted itself as supreme. 

This last act had given renewed hope to 
Huss and his friends. This was the first step 
toward the grand reformation that had been so 
long talked of, so earnestly prayed for. Conrad 
recalled the talks they had had at Lutterworth 
of this coming reformation, about which Jerome 
of Prague and Sir John Oldcastle had felt so 
confident. It was coming at last ! the com- 


At Constance. 


263 


bined wisdom of Europe would inaugurate the 
glorious era, and Jerome should be the first to 
know and rejoice over it ; and Conrad wrote 
thus, begging him to come to Prague and wel- 
come Huss on his release from prison. 

17 


264 


Conrad. 


CHAPTER XXL 


CONDEMNATION OF HUSS. 

HE news conveyed in Conrad’s letter 



J- caused the deepest joy among his friends 
at Prague. From the fact of the council hav- 
ing asserted its authority as superior to that of 
the pope, they had already drawn the most san- 
guine conclusions as to the result of Master 
Huss’s trial, and his friend Jerome had already 
began to prepare for his departure from Prague. 
A few, more cautious than the rest, begged him 
to wait till Huss had been released from prison 
before venturing to enter Constance ; but the 
ardent reformer could brook no delay, but set 
off as soon as possible on his journey, and 
entered Constance secretly, as he was protected 
by no safe-conduct to insure his return. 

Here he found that Conrad and the few 
friends with him were less sanguine than they 
had been a short time before. 

“ Nay, nay ; but, now that the council hath 
asserted its authority as above the pope, where- 
fore shouldst thou fear ? ” asked Jerome. “ The 
emperor is — ” 


Condemnation of Hnss. 


265 


“ Nay, talk not of the emperor to me ! he gave 
his imperial word that Master Huss should be 
protected, and hath he not broken it by suf- 
fering him to remain in prison ? ” exclaimed 
Conrad. 

“ But it doth not depend upon the will of the 
emperor alone. This reform of the Church is 
anxiously sought by the leaders in the council, by 
the Cardinals D’Ailly, Gerson, St. Mark, and Zab- 
erella. These are wise and learned men, of purer 
morals than most of the clergy, and as desirous of 
seeing their brethren and the Church reformed 
as Huss himself,” replied Jerome warmly. 

“ Yes, it is as thou sayest,” assented Conrad ; 
“ these do desire a reform, but it is not such a re- 
form as Master Huss and Dr. Wiclif would have. 
They would purify the lives of the clergy, and 
have the monks learned instead of ignorant — 
not that they might teach the people better, but 
that the Church might be strengthened, and 
men might no longer be able to deride and 
point the finger at her for these idle, vicious, 
ignorant priests. Thinkest thou they would 
question, far less alter, any established rule of 
the Church, either in doctrine or ritual ? Nay, 
nay ; the reform they are laboring to bring about 
is for the sake of strengthening the Church 
against the people. Thou and Master Huss and 


266 


Conrad. 


Dr. Wiclif would have a reformation for the 
people that they may be lifted up into purer, 
clearer light, and that the corruptions and 
superstitions of the Church itself should be 
purified, that they may see this true light.” 

But Jerome could not resign his fondly cher- 
ished dream all at once. He would stay at 
Constance for a few days at least, and watch 
the proceedings of the council — hear some of 
the debates, if possible, and then, if what he saw 
and heard confirmed the opinion of Conrad, he 
would leave at once and return to Prague. He 
soon became convinced that what Conrad had 
said was only too true, and was preparing to 
return, when a formal summons was issued by 
the council for him to appear before them within 
fourteen days. They offered full freedom of 
entrance into Constance. His departure must 
depend upon their judgment of his cause. 

But Jerome had already heard enough. He 
resolved to make good his escape while it was 
in his power, and he left Constance as secretly as 
he had entered, and might have reached Prague 
in safety but for his own impulsiveness. At 
Hirscham he broke out into some denunciation 
of the council, and was recognized by some of the 
clergy as the friend and coadjutor of Huss. He 
was at once seized and sent prisoner to Con- 


Condemnation of Hnss. 267 

stance, thus adding to the anxiety and perplex- 
ity of his and Huss’s friends. 

Huss had been six months in prison when, 
about the end of May, another came from Prague, 
praying the council to hear the cause of their 
countryman publicly, and deliver him from his 
noisome dungeon, as it was seriously affecting 
his health. But a public trial was the last thing 
they desired. A public recantation of his errors 
would have pleased the council, and the emperor 
too, better than any thing else ; for, as they had 
already condemned the doctrine of Wiclif, they 
could not but condemn Huss unless he so re- 
canted ; but of this they had but little hope, 
although they tried every means possible to in- 
duce him to do so. He was visited in prison by 
several of the most learned cardinals, and he 
was brought up again and again, and his trial 
protracted day after day, in the hope of wearing 
out his resistance. More than one form of re- 
cantation was drawn up for his signature, but 
Huss firmly stood by what he had taught in 
Prague. 

Early in July his works and those of Wiclif 
were condemned to be publicly burned — all that 
could be collected in Constance — and this was 
followed a few days afterward by the condemna- 
tion of Huss himself. He was publicly degraded 


268 


Conrad. 


in the cathedral, the last words of this Christian 
council to him being these : “ We devote thy 
soul to hell;” to which Huss replied: '‘And I 
commend my soul to the most merciful Lord 
Christ Jesus.” 

He was then led out of the church, two of the 
executioners’ servants walking in front and two 
behind him.* Conrad and several other friends 
were waiting outside in the street ; but when 
Conrad saw the calm, gentle face of his teacher 
and friend, all his firmness forsook him. He 
could not follow with the throng that pressed 
after the silent cortege to the meadow outside 
the walls, where a pile of fagots and a post 
with a rusty chain told all too plainly what the 
end of this was to be. No, no ; he had seen 
enough in Constance without that last awful 
spectacle, for only a short time before he had 
seen his dear friend Jerome bound to a post and 
his hands chained to his neck, and in this posi- 
tion he had been ten days ; so that what awaited 
him in the future Conrad knew all too well. 

But a sudden thought seized him as he 
watched the last of the throng pass out of sight. 
He could do nothing more for Huss — nothing 
for Jerome here in Constance but what others 
could do better ; he would hasten to Prague, and 
* See Frontispiece. 


Condemnation of Huss. 269 

rouse the citizens to do something to avenge 
the insult that had been offered to them in this 
burning of Huss, and it might be that by this 
means Jerome would be saved from a similar 
fate. 

So while the wreaths of dark smoke ascended 
from the funereal pile to the cloudless sky, and 
were reflected in the blue waters of the 
lovely lake, Conrad was riding with all speed 
from the city, his heart full of sorrow for his 
friends, and of vengeance against those who 
had condemned them ; and with this feeling as 
strong as ever in his heart he reached Prague 
with the doleful news. 

It needed no words of his to arouse the in- 
dignation of the citizens. All classes, all con- 
ditions of men, rose as if they were moved by 
one mighty impulse. The king was as angry 
as the people, and openly denounced the em- 
peror for his treachery, and the council for its 
barbarous injustice. At a meeting of the mag- 
nates of Bohemia an address was drawn up 
and signed by sixty nobles, denouncing the exe- 
cution of Huss, and this was sent without 
delay to Constance. 

The lower classes protested in a different 
fashion ; they rose against the monks and cler- 
gy in Prague who had not favored Huss, and 


270 


Conrad. 


no sooner was one riot against the monks quelled 
than another broke out. 

In dire alarm for the safety of himself and the 
brethren under him, the superior of the Do- 
minican monastery sent for the old mason to 
strengthen the walls and gates of the building, 
lest an attack should be made upon them next. 
Old Trueman cheerfully obeyed the summons, 
for he saw in this a possibility of being able to 
effect his son’s escape when all hope had failed, 
and every plan that he could devise had been 
baffled. 

By slow and painful stages the lay brother, 
Sebastian, had been aroused from his waking 
sleep — his death in life, which he had lived for 
more than thirty years — and could now recall 
much of what he had endured when he first 
entered the monastery. Whether or not he had 
ever recanted he could not tell, but he knew 
that several of the brethren had been punished 
for listening to what he had taught them. Of 
course, to escape from the monastery was all he 
desired, when sufficiently aroused to compre- 
hend his situation and the events that had 
transpired since he had been shut out of the 
world ; and it was well for him, and his father 
too, that they both knew where to seek for 
strength and patience to wait until this could 


Condemnation of Huss. 271 

be securely accomplished before even an attempt 
was made. 

But O, that weary waiting ! The impatient, 
impetuous old Englishman found that this 
heart-sickening delay — this hovering between 
hope and fear — was a trial harder to be borne 
than any he had* yet met with; but, knowing 
where to seek for grace and strength to bear it, 
he patiently waited and waited, and hoped for 
the safe deliverance to come. Trueman had 
thought — and truly so, for a time — that he was 
wholly unsuspected ; but at last the- jealous eyes 
of one of the older brethren noticed the friend- 
ship that had sprung up between the old mason 
and the half-demented lay brother. No hin- 
derance was offered to this ; the two were 
left to follow their own way ; but from that day 
they were watched, and old Trueman knew it 
— felt it with a sense that seemed suddenly to 
have been awakened in him — and from that 
moment he was ceaselessly on his guard. He 
also warned his son not to betray any thing of 
the change that had taken place in his mental 
condition. So wary was old Trueman not to 
betray any thing of his real relationship to the 
poor drudge, Sebastian, or to make the slightest 
effort toward releasing him, that at last the 
superior laughed at the brother who had 


272 


Conrad. 


brought him the news of his suspicions, and the 
watch was relaxed. But, although the work on 
which Trueman was engaged was not completed 
until after Conrad left Prague for Constance, and 
with its completion died the old man’s last hope 
of rescuing his son, still no opportunity occurred 
that would give them the least chance of carry- 
ing out an escape effectually ; and so, after the 
work was finished inside, hope almost died out 
of the old man’s heart, and he could only pray, 
with almost the agony of despair, that, now he 
had failed, God would rescue his son by some 
other means ; but what this was likely to be he 
puzzled himself in vain to conceive until the 
riots against the monks and friars commenced, 
after the death of Huss. Then hope again awoke 
in his heart, and he whispered to Conrad that 
if the infuriated mob would but attack the Do- 
minican monastery, among the rest his father 
might be rescued in the confusion of the fight. 

Scarcely had the words been spoken when a 
message was brought to him from the superior, 
asking him to direct the work of strengthening 
the walls in case of an attack. He lost no 
time in going to the monastery, where he found 
the panic 7 stricken brethren in the greatest con- 
fusion from fright and alarm at what had al- 
ready befallen seme of the religious houses of 


273 


Condemnation of Hnss. 

the city. In the confusion and dismay he 
iound little difficulty in securing the services 
of his son, whom he directed to keep close to 
him “Thou shalt be free to-morrow, Ned,” 
whispered the old man as he made a feint of 
driving in an iron stanchion to secure a win- 
dow — the very window by which he had re- 
solved Ned must escape. He made him under- 
stand how this was to be effected now. “ Thou 
wilt not have to wait long, I trow, for it will but 
need a word from thy lad, Conrad, and the mob 
will be here instead of frightening the nuns in 
the next street ; ” and even while he spoke came 
the distant, indistinct roar of the approaching 
crowd. At that sound the old man had taken off 
part of his own clothes and put them upon his 
son, and at the same time covered him with the 
dust of the brick-work he had been cutting away. 

The brethren fled for their lives to the chapel 
as they heard the same ominous sound, and 
when the mob had reached the gates, and had 
battered a portion of the outer wall down, the 
old man was preparing to descend from the 
window, which was only a few feet from the 
ground. Young Ned Trueman — no longer 
Brother Sebastian, since he had gained a footing 
outside his prison walls — shrunk away in dire 
alarm, for the noise of sticks and stones, and 


274 Conrad. 

the blows from the heavy iron bars upon the 
gate, added to the shouts and groans and yells 
of “ Down with it ! Down with the old crows’ 
nest! Burn it as they burned Master Huss!” 
made the din almost deafening. 

It was well for them, too, that Conrad was 
one of the first to enter by the breach made in 
the wall, or they would only have escaped one 
peril to fall into another ; for a mob is not like- 
ly to ask questions or wait for explanations 
when in search of victims to vent their mad 
wrath upon. But Conrad they did know — they 
recognized him as the man who had told them 
•where they could easiest make an entrance, and 
they had some consciousness of hearing him 
say he wanted to rescue a prisoner ; and so the 
mad yell with which they first greeted the old 
mason and his son as they saw them was not 
followed by the death-giving blow or the rough 
usage, as it probably would have been if Con- 
rad had not been there. 

He did not need to be told that the pale, 
haggard, frightened face he saw before him was 
that of his father, for he limped forward on his 
crutches and threw himself into his arms. “My 
father, my father ! ” he gasped, while he could 
but feebly clasp him to his breast ; for all this 
unwonted noise and confusion, after the dread 


2;5 


Condemnation of Hnss. 

monotony of his life, almost deprived him of 
his senses again. The poor old mason’s joy was 
considerably lessened when he saw the effect 
this scene of terror and confusion had upon 
his son, and he begged two of the rioters to 
help them to escape from it as soon as possible, 
and this the men gladly promised to do when 
they understood who they were. He was half 
led, half carried, home, where Dame Ermen- 
garde, scarcely less frightened than the monks 
themselves, could hardly be persuaded to open 
the door to them. 

“Thou must not tell her yet, Conrad, who 
our sick friend is,” said his grandfather ; and 
Conrad nodded assent, for he was willing to 
promise any thing now that he had his father 
at liberty. 

Dame Ermengarde was made to comprehend 
that the sick man would only stay there long 
enough to put on some of Conrad’s clothes in 
exchange for his own, and take some refresh- 
ment, and then they were all to remove at once 
to the house of a friend at some distance. 

Here, in quiet retirement from the din of 
the city, Ned Trueman once more regained his 
mental faculties, and then, 'but not till then, 
did Dame Ermengarde again see her husband. 
That they should scarcely recognize each other 


2 76 


Conrad. 


after the long years of agony through which 
they had passed is not surprising, but, once 
knowing each other, yeass seemed to fall off 
them, and they seemed to grow young again. 

In watching the happiness of his son and 
daughter old Trueman passed the happiest 
days of his life, and why Conrad should still be 
so restless and so dissatisfied he could not 
understand. 

“Yea, as thou sayest, I have my father now,” 
replied Conrad, “ but I have lost the hope of my 
life there will never be a reformation now, 
since this Council of Constance hath burned 
Jerome as they did Huss and Conrad could 
say no more. 


Conclusion. 


2/7 


•* 

CHAPTER XXII. 

CONCLUSION. 

E IGHTEEN years have passed since we 
last chronicled any event affecting the 
personages of our story — eighteen years of 
battle and bloodshed, of riots and massacres, 
at the relation of which the blood runs cold. 
Now once more the Bohemians — the repre- 
sentatives of those who hold the opinions of 
Huss — appear before a general council of the 
Church, this time assembled at Basle. 

Among the attendants on this august body 
are our old friend Conrad, with Peter Payne, 
an Englishman, and the warrior-priest Pro- 
copius, who had led the Hussite troops from 
victory to victory, and Rogana, a theologian of 
great eloquence and learning. The three latter 
are the accredited Bohemian embassadors to the 
council — not this time to be tried and condemned, 
as were Huss and Jerome, by the Council of 
Constance. No, no; the Council of Basle was 
not likely to repeat the mistake made by that 
body, for the emperor knew now to his cost 
what a province in revolt meant, and Bohemia 


278 


Conrad. 


had achieved such splendid victories under her 
generals, Zisca and Procopius, that Germany 
was now in alarm for her own safety, and the 
council was ready to tolerate the heresy of 
the insurgents for the sake of peace. But in 
the midst of this present security Conrad often 
recalled the time when, at Constance, he had 
sought to hide in obscure hostelries, never 
staying long in one neighborhood, lest he should 
become known as a friend of Huss. 

He was talking of this one day to his friends, 
and of that time when he first met Jerome at 
the hostelry in Lutterworth. “Two,” said he 
— “Sir John Oldcastle and Jerome Faulfisch — 
have died ; been burned for the reformation 
they never saw. I would that they were here 
this day to see our reformation triumphant ; ” and 
then, as the thought of other friends in England 
who now lay languishing in prison for this 
same cause recurred to him, his thoughts 
grew almost too painful for utterance, and he 
turned aside to hide the emotion he could not 
but feel. 

At length Conrad resumed the conversation 
with his friends. “ Our cause is triumphant 
now,” he. said ; “ be wary lest ye betray any 
thing for which the blood of Bohemians has 
been spilled like water.” 


Conclusion. 279 

“Nay, but the council hath promised to con- 
cede all we ask — the communion in both kinds,” 
said Rogana. 

“ But that is not all ,” burst forth Procopius 
and Conrad in a breath. “ We demand our 
rights as set forth in the four articles of Prague : 
freedom to be taught by our ministers through- 
out the realm; for communion in both kinds; 
that the clergy shall not hold estates nor 
mingle in secular affairs ; that deadly sins shall 
be punished by the magistrate, and that no in- 
dulgences shall be sold for money.” These 
were the articles that must be adhered to, 
Conrad said. 

But Rogana shook his head. “ The council 
will not concede as much,” he said. 

“ The council shall concede more ; the ar- 
ticles of Prague are not enough ! ” exclaimed 
Procopius. Payne sided with Procopius, other 
friends with Rogana ; and so the strife went on 
among themselves. The council, which would 
far rather have treated these leaders of the 
Hussites as they had Huss himself than grant 
any concession at all, was not slow to take ad- 
vantage of these divisions, dragging out their 
deliberations to an interminable length. 

The council had other affairs on hand besides 
this of these Bohemian heretics. Like its 
18 


280 


Conrad. 


predecessor, it had been mainly convoked to 
amend the morals of the clergy, and the ques- 
tion of marriage was once more propounded, 
and by some most earnestly advocated. They 
were now in communication with the emperor 
of the East and the patriarch of Constantinople, 
for western help to drive back the all-conquer- 
ing Turks was urgently needed, and the price 
demanded was the reconciliation of the Greek 
or Eastern Church. Now these admitted mar- 
riage among their priests, and so it would be a 
fitting time to admit it here ; and if this were 
sanctioned by the council there was little doubt 
but that it would be eagerly accepted by the 
main body of the clergy, and this would re- 
establish the principle set forth by the Council 
of Constance — the superiority of council over 
pope. This question was agitating not only 
the Church, but the whole of Europe now, for 
Pope Eugenius had summoned a rival council 
in Italy, under his own presidency, disdaining 
that of Basle, presided over by the emperor. 
So there were anathemas and denunciations to 
be hurled at each other by these two infallible 
councils, besides the weightier business of out- 
bidding each other for the attendance of the 
Greek patriarch and bishops at their respective 
councils. 


Conclusion. 


281 


But while the Bohemians were kept waiting 
in Basle, quarreling among themselves, the 
Greeks came to Italy, and a hollow adjustment 
of the differences in creed was entered into with 
the pope’s council, while that of Basle decided 
that the celibacy of the clergy must still con- 
tinue an abiding law of the Church. 

The Bohemians, divided among themselves, 
were easily managed by the council. The 
communion in both kinds, upon which all were 
agreed, was conceded. The four articles of 
Prague were either eluded or compromised, and 
the embassadors returned home — to lay down the 
sword, indeed, but to begin, or rather to con- 
tinue, a polemical strife that ended at last in 
the true followers of Huss being driven to seek 
refuge in the woods and forests, where they 
made common cause with a detachment of the 
persecuted Waldensians, living in caves and 
suffering innumerable privations ; for they dared 
not light a fire by'day or appear in a town or 
village except by stealth ; and thus ended, or 
rather died, the Sclavonic Reformation — the 
reformation inaugurated by the sword, and once 
promising such splendid success. 

Was it wonderful that Conrad, baffled, disap- 
pointed, and never yet having found that rest 
and peace for his soul that he so ardently longed 


282 


Conrad. 


for, should become at last a soured, embittered 
old man ? But so it was ; the years had slipped 
away again, and even the Council of Basle was 
little more than a memory to him — a something 
that he talked of bitterly and angrily to his aged 
mother and father, as having ended what the 
Council of Constance had so unwittingly begun 
— the Bohemian Reformation. 

Dame Ermengarde and her husband had 
glided into a calm, happy old age, after the 
stormy, sorrowful years of their early wedded 
life. Together they had watched and waited 
upon their father, to whom, under God, they 
owed their reunion, until the final call came, and 
old Ned Trueman was summoned to an inherit- 
ance better than any land tenure that could be 
devised — the “inheritance of the saints in light,” 
“ the building of God,” “ eternal in the heavens,” 
where neither wisdom, nor learning, nor wealth, 
nor power, is needful to establish a claim, but 
faith in the Lord Jesus Christ only. 

Conrad was not in Bohemia when his grand- 
father died, but the old man’s last words were 
for him — “the little knave who would be a 
seraphic doctor.” Dame Ermengarde wished 
he could have seen the peaceful end of the 
sturdy old English mason, who, in the midst of 
all his longings to go back to his native land 


Conclusion. 283 

before he died, could yet say the Lord’s prayer 
from his heart, “ Thy will be done.” 

After the close of the Hussite war and that 
delusive peace concluded with the Council of 
Basle, Conrad wandered about through the coun- 
tries of Europe, returning now and again to his 
home in Tabor — the stronghold built by the 
Hussites outside the city of Prague, and where 
often in the midst of the wildest alarms and 
preparations for war Dame Ermengarde had 
lived in undisturbed peace. 

But he had never remained long with them be- 
fore the old restlessness would return. He would 
relate all he knew of the strange things and 
people he had met with in his travels ; and when 
the wonder or the novelty of relating these had 
gone he would depart again, often to the great 
grief of his mother and father. Once when he 
came home he related how he had met with a man 
who told him that books would no longer need to 
be written, and he had showed him some blocks of 
wood upon which letters were cut, that, being 
inked, could be pressed upon the parchment 
again and again. His master, one John Geins- 
fleish, of Haerlem, had been amusing himself 
one day by cutting letters on a tree, and from 
this Master Coster had got his idea of cutting 
them in blocks of wood. 


284 


Conrad. 


Of course, Conrad ridiculed the idea of any 
thing displacing the use of the pen in the mul- 
tiplication of books ; but when, after a length- 
ened tour, he returned from Paris about the year 
1452, he brought with him a parcel about which 
he seemed in great perplexity. He had brought 
it from Paris, where he had bought it of Master 
John Faustus, who had shortly afterward been 
accused of witchcraft and thrown into prison. 
He told his mother this as he lifted the heavy, 
cumbersome parcel with some difficulty on to 
the table. 

Gentle Dame Ermengarde, as timid as ever, 
started at the word “ witchcraft,” and would 
have run out of the house if Conrad had not 
assured her that the parcel contained nothing 
but what was good — what she had often handled 
before, and what her beloved mistress, good 
Queen Anne, prized above all her treasures. 
But the old lady still shook her head doubtfully 
when she looked on the strange black letters she 
could not read. “ Nay, nay ; be not affrighted, 
my mother ; it is the Bible — all the Bible in 
these two books, and ’tis made by the new in- 
vention called printing. Dost thou remember, 
I told thee of the strange wooden letters Master 
Coster showed me ? He showed them to others 
besides, and Master Faustus thought if they 





The First Bible. 














































































































































































































Conclusion. 


287 

could be made in metal instead of being cut in 
wood it must be better, and so be hath done it, 
and can make more Bibles in a month with 
his printing-press than I could write in two 
years.” 

This last announcement only frightened his 
mother more ; but his father tottered forward, 
and, without any fear, laid his hand upon the 
book. 

“ I am too old to see to read this Bible. But 
if, as thou sayest, it is of truth the word of God, 
and can be made so fast and so cheap that 
many, and not few, can possess it, then — then 
there is hope of a reformation yet ! ” 

The old man spoke with fire and energy and 
almost forgot to lean upon his stick as he passed 
his hand lovingly and tenderly across the sacred 
page, that was to his dimmed eyes but a blurred 
sheet of parchment. Conrad’s eyes flashed for a 
moment with something of their old light, but 
he shook his head mournfully the next minute. 
“ Nay, nay, that hope hath died now ; seek not 
to raise it again,” he said ; (( I am content to let 
it go now, for I have learned that God hath his 
hidden ones even among the monks of the cor- 
rupt Roman Church. I will tell thee of this 
anon ; but speak not again of a reformation 
since the sword of Bohemia hath failed,” 


2SS 


Conrad. 


“ Ah, the sword of Bohemia hath failed ! ” said 
his father, with a deep-drawn sigh ; “ but didst 
thou never hear, my Conrad, of the sword of 
the Spirit, which is the word of God ? If this 
be unsheathed, if this be sent out into all the 
land, there will, there must, be light at last — 
light brighter than Masters Wiclif or Huss ever 
saw — light compared with which ours is but 
as the first streak of day-dawn to the noontide 
sun.” 

“It may be — God grant it may be — as thou 
sayest ! and I wish Master Faustus God-speed 
in his work, and that he may be speedily re- 
leased from prison ; but speak not again of a 
reformation to me.” 

Finding the subject was painful to his son, the 
old man desisted ; but if he had not known 
that this hope of his son’s life had at last been 
utterly given up he would certainly have thought 
that he had taken hold of it again. That a 
great change had taken place in Conrad no one 
could doubt, but it was some time before any 
one could account for it, and then only to his 
mother did he impart the secret of which he 
had at last become possessed. “ My mother, I 
have learned it at last — learned the secret you 
and my dear old grandfather learned so long 
ago ; I have found my way to God himself. I 


Conclusion. 


289 


thought to learn it by study and philosophy, by 
wisdom and learning, by teaching the new and 
better way taught by Wiclif and Huss ; but God 
hath confounded all my wisdom, and it was at 
last by the teaching of a black friar that I saw 
my way out of the darkness of sin into the light 
of God’s truth.” 

“ A black friar ! a Dominican monk ! one of 
those who persecuted thy father almost unto 
death ! ” exclaimed his mother. 

“ Ah, ’tis even as thou sayest. I was in 
France, and met with a Spanish monk, one Vin- 
cent Ferrer. As thou knowest, I rarely con- 
sort with monks ; but this one was preaching in 
a narrow road, and by reason of the crowd my 
mule could not pass, and I heard there words 
such as Master Huss himself might have taught 
— words that were suited to me as though the 
monk had known my hidden life. I went and 
spoke to him afterward, and he said I should 
have a book he had written, one I would like to 
read — a book on spiritual life. Listen, my 
mother, for this is written from the monk’s 
book : 4 Dost thou desire to study to advan- 
tage ? Consult God more than books, and ask 
him humbly to make thee understand what thou 
readest. Go from time to time to be refreshed 
at the feet of Christ, under his cross. Some 


290 Conrad. 

moments of repose there give fresh vigor and 
new light ; interrupt thy study by short but 
fervent supplications/ My mother, if I could 
but have learned that fifty years ago — gained 
the peace these words have brought me when I 
first came back to Bohemia — my life would have 
been different, I trow. I should not have urged 
our citizens of Prague to take up the sword to 
win a reformation by bloodshed ; for how can 
peace — the peace of God, which passeth all 
understanding — be gained by earthly weapons ? 
So I have laid down the hope at last, the dear- 
est hope of my life — dearer even than Mistress 
Mary Winchester, whose pure, sweet life was 
worn out in a noisome prison for this same hope, 
and now waits in heaven for me, and for the 
hope she died for to be fulfilled. It may be we 
shall see it together there ; but not here, not in 
this world/’ 

Conrad had thought this hope not only dead, 
but buried ; but it was wakened again to a tran- 
sient life a few months afterward. He had just 
closed his mother’s eyes in death, and was ex- 
pecting to lay his father in the tomb with her, 
when he was asked to go to Constantinople 
with some other Hussite leaders, to form an al- 
liance with the Greek Church. He had taken 
so little part in public affairs lately, devoting 


Conclusion. 


291 


himself so exclusively to the care of his aged 
mother and father, who were both fast tottering to 
the grave under their weight of fourscore years, 
that he had heard nothing of the reunion of the 
different sects into which the Hussites had been 
broken up, or that Rogana, still anxious for a 
reformation, had # at last prevailed upon the 
States of the kingdom to solicit a reunion with 
the Greek Church. A so-called union had been 
entered into with the pope and the Council of 
Florence when the Council of Basle was sit- 
ting, but it had been repudiated with scorn by 
the people when their bishops returned, and now 
they hated with greater intensity the Church of 
Rome. 

All this was explained to Conrad by the mes- 
sengers of Archbishop Rogana, but he gravely 
shook his head. “ The Greeks may, as thou 
sayest, hate the Romans, and hatred may bind 
two peoples together for a little while ; but love 
only can make them keep together. The arch- 
bishop would, doubtless, be glad to see a reforma- 
tion, being urged thereto by his people ; but a 
reformation with hatred for its basis will never 
be God’s reformation, I trow.” 

But when his father died, a few weeks after- 
ward, and was laid in the grave beside his 
mother, Conrad began to think more about the 


292 


Conrad. 


archbishop’s plan of an alliance with the Greek 
Church, and at last he was so far prevailed upon 
as to consent to accompany the messengers to 
Constantinople. But, alas, for human hopes ! 
just as the preparations for his journey were 
complete came the direful news of the sacking 
of Constantinople by the Turks, and the final 
overthrow of the Greek empire. Europe stood 
horror-stricken at the news, for whither would 
the all-conquering Turks next march ? It was 
the death-blow to Conrad’s faintly reviving hope, 
and it was laid at rest forever. 

Could any one have told him that these re- 
lentless Mohammedan victors, who had driven 
Christianity out of Constantinople, and Pope 
Nicholas V., with his love of books and learning 
and hatred of all heresy, were to be the main 
instruments in God’s hands for bringing about 
that for which he had hoped so long, he would 
have said it was impossible. But He who uses 
the most unlikely means to accomplish his pur- 
poses was slowly but surely gathering together 
the materials and workers that were to bring 
about that, for which the nations, as well as in- 
dividuals, had sighed in vain. 

Conrad heard of the flight of many of the 
scholars and philosophers from Constantinople 
to Rome, whither they had been drawn by the 


Conclusion. 


293 


pope’s love of learning and the encouragement 
he gave to all scholars. He heard, too, of the re- 
lease of Faustus from prison, and a further im- 
provement being made in the art of printing ; and, 
though he sometimes recalled his aged father’s 
words about this “ sword of the Spirit,” how 
should he know that this little cloud no bigger 
than a man’s hand, was yet the cloud destined 
to break in showers of blessing on all lands ? 
No, Conrad could not hope any longer, but he 
could pray ; and among his friends — the United 
Brethren, whom he joined on the confines of 
Moravia — none prayed more earnestly, more 
fervently, more constantly, than Conrad; but he 
saw not that for which he prayed — the Re- 
formation. 


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